Prudence
by cithrin
Summary: "Bane!" The shout seemed to silence the entire Stock Exchange, as if a glass dome had been dropped over their heads. Even the henchmen were frozen in motion. It certainly got his attention. Bane/OC
1. Chapter 1

1.

Prue counted back from one hundred. That usually did the trick. She wasn't crying or wheezing, that must have been someone _else_. Her face was dry, she just had to keep wiping away the tears.

People around her were freaking out, but no one was _sobbing_ like a little girl.

Why was it that she was always the crybaby?

She knew there was no shame in crying, she'd read somewhere that it actually released toxins, but she wished she could stop, all the same. It wasn't helping anyone, least of all her.

The gunshots rebounded in her ears. They didn't sound like in the movies, they sounded like someone breaking eggs over her head. Lately, she had been hearing a lot of that, even in the more peaceful neighborhoods. The city was boiling.

She could say this was a case of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Gotham, in general, was a bad chronotope, a city of the damned. She couldn't even remember now why she had wanted to do her MA here. She hadn't known that things could degenerate so quickly.

She cowered along with everyone else under upturned desks and behind copy-machines.

The thickset man with a spider's mask for a face looked _ungodly_ huge. He was nothing like the figure she'd seen on TV. They usually said the screen added ten pounds, but in his case it had removed twenty. He was a beast. He should have been an MMA fighter or something. He probably was.

He was scouring the frightened crowd for hostages. His small, black eyes were filled with such quiet violence it made everyone stand perfectly still.

He jerked his head at his band of terrorists and they started picking up people from the floor at random. Prue had watched enough TV shows to know this was done to keep the police from aiming any guns inside.

The rest of the people were ushered out through side-doors which were guarded by armed men.

The commotion resulted in a few casualties, since people were tripping and stepping over each other blindly in order to get out. A few stubborn idiots wanted to turn back for a phone or a laptop, which prompted severe violence from the henchmen.

Prue kept her gaze downwards, away from the rampage.

What was _she_ doing at the Gotham Stock Exchange? Delivering food, of course.

Acquiring a Master's degree didn't come with a paycheck, so she had to get a job meanwhile. A catering company had seemed like a sweet deal, an enviable position even. She was good at driving, she was good with money, and she always got some free leftovers when the day was done. It could have been a sweet gig, except for her current predicament.

The day had started promisingly enough. She'd had three successful deliveries, and then this.

The irony was that she had agreed to cover a friend's shift. Because she was ever-so nice.

God, she was never doing favors for anyone again.

 _Don't look at me, don't pick me, walk past me, please..._ she prayed and prayed and prayed.

In vain. Her silent begging had only sealed her fate. A man with a bushy beard and a lazy eye yanked her up by her shoulder and dragged her in the middle of the hallway.

Prue tried not to sniffle. She felt like the worst kind of coward, because at that moment, she wished he had picked someone else.

She was pushed into the small group of hostages who stood like sacrificial lambs next to the tall windows where officers could clearly see them from the outside.

She saw a cement truck positioned in front of the pivot-doors, a fortified barricade in case anyone got any ideas.

The man called Bane was speaking now, giving instructions to the brokers. She struggled to pick up the words, but they were fogged over by fear. He had come here with a clear purpose, and it seemed he wanted to crash the market, or at least crash _someone_ on the market.

Not that she had a fucking clue what that meant. She was a History major, and this was all incomprehensible.

She returned to her counting. She'd reached sixty-five. This would all be over soon, one way or another. Either Bane would _kill_ his hostages, or he'd set them free. It was the wait that was agonizing.

Prue knew one thing; if she got out of this alive, she was going straight to the train station for a no-return ticket back home. And she was never coming back.

What happened next was a blur; she had reached thirty-five in her countdown, when the woman next to her, whose sweater poorly concealed a pregnancy bump, swooned dramatically and fainted in her _arms_. Prue was fast enough to catch her as her body slid towards the floor.

"Whoa, easy there!"

Prue tapped cold fingers against her cheeks, but the woman was totally unresponsive. Her face had turned an alarming shade of white.

"Jesus, we need help, this woman's unconscious!" she yelled at no one in particular. The mass of hostages around her parted like the sea. Prue knelt on the marble floor, cradling the woman's head in her lap.

"Is anyone here a doctor?" she asked, staring up at them wildly. She _really_ did not need this on top of being involved in an armed take-over. Like, honestly.

The people around her, most of them Stock Exchange employees of low ranks, shrugged helplessly, voicing fearful concern but being unable to provide her with much help.

"Does anyone have any water, at least? She's pregnant."

This seemed to draw the attention of the few henchmen in their proximity. The bearded one, who appeared to have some authority over them, told her in no uncertain terms to step away from the woman.

"But she's with child - you can't just leave her like that," Prue argued helplessly.

"I said get up," he ground out sternly.

Prue deposited the pregnant woman gently on the floor, but her sleeve latched onto the sweater's hem by mistake and when she pulled, she had a glimpse of what was hidden below the waist.

"Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit."

The woman was bleeding. Her jeans were sporting a large red stain between her legs. And it was getting bigger.

"She's bleeding, this isn't good!"

She forgot her stupid countdown. This was turning into a full-blown panic attack. She couldn't handle someone's blood right now. Especially since -

 _No._ She closed her eyes and tried to chase away the image of her own mother, lying dead on a hospital bed, the same bloody mess between her legs.

She wouldn't ever go through that again.

"That's not your problem. Get up, I won't tell you again," the man warned, cocking his gun and aiming it straight at her head.

Prue recoiled at the threatening motion, but she kept a stubborn, almost unconscious arm on the fallen woman. Desperate for some kind of way out of this terrible mess, she directed her eyes at the man in charge. The beast.

"Please!" she yelled towards him, hoping her voice could carry. "She needs to get to a hospital!"

But he had not heard her. He stood with his solid back to her, immersed in his own dealings with the brokers. Prue had no idea if Bane was his real name or if the newspapers and TV reports had made it up, but she raised her head higher and screamed, for all her worth,

" _Bane!_ "

The shout seemed to silence the entire Stock Exchange, as if a glass dome had been dropped over their heads. Even the henchmen were frozen in motion.

It certainly got his attention. He turned with the sharpness of a large feline, scanning the parameter in search of the noise. When his eyes landed on her, she shrank.

What had she done?

She couldn't go back on it now.

"This woman," she started weakly as he marched towards her with heavy, level steps. "Needs help."

Her eyes scrambled over his heavy bomber jacket and camouflage trousers and settled on the deathly mask gripping his skull. His mouth looked as if it was covered by poisonous metal teeth.

"Please," she began again, unable to look away, "she needs to go to the hospital, or she'll bleed out or have a miscarriage."

He stared down at the woman she still cradled in her lap who now looked grim, her mouth slack, her eyelids an eggshell blue.

"Please."

A few horrible seconds passed in perfect silence. She could safely say they were the longest in her life.

Prue couldn't make out his expression underneath the mask, but she supposed she didn't need to. His gloved fingers suddenly snapped at the bearded man, who, in turn, ordered one of the henchmen to carry the woman out to the police.

Prue released a deep breath, her whole body sagging from the tension of the moment.

"Thank you," she said in a ragged voice. Only a few moments later did she realize whom she had thanked.

The beast stared at her like she was a toy or a bug, something he could squash at a moment's notice. She realized he was angry, _she_ had made him angry. She had dared to interrupt him from his important business. And she had _thanked_ him for it.

His eyes moved lower and she looked down to follow his gaze. Underneath her jacket she was wearing a T-shirt with the catering company's logo.

Prue tried to cover herself, but it was probably too late.

He signaled to one of his men again. Prue balked and stumbled back on her hands. Was he going to punish her for her impudence? She flinched, preparing herself for a blow.

But much to her shock, the henchman simply picked her up from the floor and pushed her away from the hostages, towards the side-doors.

She - she was being _released_.

Prue couldn't believe her lucky stars.

It was only when she found herself in the harsh autumn air, with the golden light of the sun in her hair, that she felt safe.

She ran as fast as her feet could carry her towards the line of officers in the distance.

She could see civilian on-lookers crowding the street and the pavement, waving at her, calling out questions. But she looked straight ahead.

One of the officers ran to her and covered her in a warm blanket.

"You're in shock," he whispered in her ear.

She was taken to one of the police vans and given water and painkillers.

"Is the pregnant woman okay?" she asked between long gulps.

"The ambulance took her," the officer assured her.

But Prue hardly felt assured. She stared at the stone edifice behind her where a host of terrorists was bent on destroying innocent lives. Except, two innocent lives had been spared.

She almost felt like the beast was staring back.

* * *

 _A/N: just something I've been working on. Hope you found it interesting!_


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Her mother had given her the name Prudence, Prue for short.

She never introduced herself by her full name. It was a matter of dignity.

"I'm not a nun or a safe sex pamphlet," she would mutter to her dad when he insisted that she use _Prudence_.

The truth was, she didn't like the name's backstory.

When her mother was young, she got mixed up with a bad crowd. Darla fell in love with a musician who was heavily addicted to narcotics and habitually violent towards her and his band mates. She was his groupie-slash-fiancée for a while, until she realized her life was spiraling out of control, and if she didn't leave him soon, she'd probably end up in a ditch somewhere.

She didn't really break up with him, though; not until she met Prue's dad. Andrew was safe and responsible and loving, and if he hadn't fought for Darla's livelihood (he had got her clean and out of rehab), she wouldn't have turned her life around.

Prudence, their daughter, was supposed to be a daily reminder that she had given up a bad life for a good one.

But Prue would have preferred to be just a child, not a reminder. She resented her mother for a while. Well, up until her death. You can hardly hold a grudge against the dead.

It all started with a birthday wish. On her tenth celebration, Prue blew away the candles and whispered in her mother's ears, "I want a baby brother".

So, her parents started trying for a baby brother.

All through her mother's pregnancy, Prue dreamt of taking care of this anonymous baby (who forever remained nameless and faceless), feeding and clothing and playing with him. Like a larger-than-life toy. She was going to be a wonderful big sister, she just knew it.

When the doctors pulled the white sheet over her mother's forehead, Prue felt like a criminal.

A few months of school counseling and therapy convinced her, on the surface of things, that it hadn't been her fault. A child's innocent wish for a sibling does not equal murder.

But Prue knew the truth, deep down in the place where all things become clear. If she hadn't asked for a baby, her parents might have waited. Whatever words of comfort were given her, nothing could erase this bare fact. She had killed her mother and brother.

She carried this guilt with her wherever she went. It molded her, shaped her, made her into who she was today. She sometimes wondered who she might've been without it. She couldn't picture that person. They were too foreign.

Living with the ghost of her brother made her uncannily aware of other people's ghosts.

Prue was known as a "friend in need", someone you could count on to cover your shift or lend you money or let you crash on her couch. She was nice. But her niceness was not something bubbly and joyful. She didn't light up the room with her smile. She didn't liven up the workplace. No, her friends and colleagues simply knew she was susceptible to other people's pain. Like a moth to a flame. She wouldn't go out of her way to help you, but if she saw you hurting or crying, she'd fly towards you like a robin to her nest.

It was why she was currently letting Lisa drink all the milk from her fridge and sleep in her bed while she was in class. Lisa worked at _Al Freco's_ with her, and she had recently been dumped by a terrible boyfriend. She had nowhere else to go. Prue couldn't let her sleep on the streets.

But it was becoming a bit of an inconvenience. Like today, for instance, when she returned from the most harrowing delivery of her life, to find Lisa still in her pajamas, crying about her ex-boyfriend, hugging an ice cream vat in front of the TV.

"Hey, we're out of milk, hope you don't mind," Lisa informed her as she walked through the door.

Prue heaved a sigh. "Great. I'll go buy some more."

That was the extent of the conversation about what had happened at the Gotham Stock Exchange.

In Lisa's defense, Prue didn't feel like talking about it anyway. She wasn't even sure she could. It had happened. She had survived. She was OK.

 _Was she?_

She would be, in time.

She would have liked to be alone for a while, but she couldn't very well kick Lisa out.

She saw a few missed calls from her dad, and she thought about ringing him up and telling him all about it, but she would have worried him pointlessly, and given his heart condition, he was safer not knowing. He had had a minor heart attack a few months back, and ever since then, Prue was wary of springing up any kind of news on him.

She remembered now, as she walked down the street to the 7/11, that she'd promised herself that she would get on the first train home and never return to Gotham again. Prue watched as the night sky filled up with scant stars. Like most of her self-imposed ultimatums, this one wouldn't stick either.

 _One more week, and then I'm telling Lisa to move out._

 _One more month, and then I'm changing advisors._

 _One more year and then I'll be out of here._

The newsreel was playing on every TV inside the 7/11 and the footage was exclusively focused on the Gotham Stock Exchange, except now she could see the events in a chronological order; how Bane and his cohort had closed off the adjoining streets, how they had driven an army truck into the building with little to no compunction, how they had shot the first fires and disabled the working cameras inside. Morbidly, Prue watched for images she could recognize. But the moment she had been released from the building was not captured on camera, or at least, it did not make the final cut. The pregnant woman had taken up the spotlight. Prue wondered if she was all right. She supposed she could try to find her, but she wouldn't be able to visit her at the hospital.

"Cash or credit?" the cashier asked, disinterested.

She kept staring at the screen. They were rewinding the footage, showing Bane's entrance once again. The cameras reduced him and limited his powers, but he still sent a chill down her spine. His body seemed made for warfare, but it was not mechanical. Despite the horrific mask that caged his features, he was clearly flesh and blood, and the corporality of his being was not a weakness. It was an aggressive kind of strength. He meant to impress you with his sheer size. She could not remember much of him now, except this vastness of being.

None of his henchmen had been apprehended, and he'd managed to escape on a motorcycle. It was strange how the authorities could not trace him, could not catch him. He was like a ghost, like her dead brother and mother, living beyond the grasp of others.

In a few days' time, her meeting him would seem unreal. In fact, even now she couldn't believe she had spoken to him. The police had questioned her briefly about it, but they had judged her input to be pretty useless. She didn't blame them. And yet, she wondered, not for the first time, why Bane had listened to her, why he had let the pregnant woman go.

Suppose even he had standards. Even _he_ felt pity. It was a comforting thought, though it also sent shivers down her spine.

 _The temptation to humanize the oppressor is great_ , the history books told her time and again. _One must resist it_.

* * *

The wind beat through the naked trees which dotted the sparse campus of Gotham University. Much like the rest of the city, the main building was both neoclassical and futuristic, a combination that frankly gave her a headache: wide spaces, arched columns, steel fixtures, dark granite. It was the picture of solemnity, but it also looked like it belonged in _American Psycho_. She was sitting in her reading nook in the library, pouring over her notes and cursing the professor who had assigned _Hegemony and Socialist Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics_ \- a title so digestible and wonderful that she had drawn little devils around it in red marker – when she heard her phone receive a text.

It was from the manager at _Al Fresco's_. She dreaded, at first, that it would be another one of his awkward "are you OK?" messages. He'd been acting overly concerned since the Stock Exchange, and while she appreciated the gesture, she had an inkling he was checking to see if she was still a viable employee. Capitalism was an unforgiving mistress, as she had read many a times in _Hegemony and Socialist Strategy_.

Thankfully, he hadn't texted to voice his concern.

 _Can you come in earlier? There's a demand for you._

Prue rubbed at her eyes wearily. A demand for her? How odd.

The following text only marginally clarified the situation.

 _Customer willing to pay triple if you take the order. Says everyone else is sloppy._

Prue scoffed, digging her pencil into her chin. She had the sense that the customer in question was either very rich or very racist. She'd noticed some people preferred that she - a visibly white girl - deliver their food instead of some of her more "urban" colleagues.

It was a tough choice – spend one more hour hopelessly poring over dry political theory, or drive around the city and get paid for it.

She chose the latter.

* * *

Prue knew she'd get a good tip just by looking at the underground parking facility. It was spruced up and spotless, the expensive sports cars gleaming in the harsh neon light. She could catch her reflection in them much better than in a mirror. She stuck her tongue out at one of them.

She walked up to the private elevator and punched in the suit's number, balancing the delivery bags in her left hand.

A cool male voice spoke into the intercom. "Yes?"

"Mr. Daggett? I'm Prue from _Al Fresco's_. I got your order."

There was no answer, but the intercom buzzed loudly and the elevator opened its doors.

Prue thought about the big paper for her Late Byzantine Period class that she had to finish typing up, and other million chores she had to get done, not to mention helping Lisa find an apartment, and suddenly she never wanted this elevator ride to end.

But end it did. Time stopped for no one.

She made it to the double-panel door, which was already slightly ajar. Prue didn't want to peek, so she knocked politely.

"Mr. Daggett?"

A gloved hand pulled her inside before she had time to shriek.

The door was shut behind her.

Prue blinked.

She was staring up at an all-too familiar face. It was the bearded man, the henchman who had shoved her into the hostage group at the Stock Exchange. She would've recognized him anywhere.

"You…" she mumbled, almost dropping the food.

He was quick, placing a hand over the bags.

"You can put them there," he instructed, pointing at a table in the hallway.

Prue was much too shocked to protest. She walked on stilted feet, almost unaware of her surroundings.

She dumped the delivery bags on the gleaming mahogany surface and stood there like a frightened little kid. One shaking hand dived into her pocket to get her phone, but the henchman was watching her.

"Ah-ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, and she could see the gun peeking from his jacket.

Prue lowered her hand. She could also see other henchmen further down the corridor. They weren't watching her, but they didn't need to. They all had their hands on their weapons.

At the very end of the corridor there was a Japanese partition which was drawn half-open. Through it, she heard a man arguing vehemently with someone.

She couldn't understand what they were saying, but she heard the name "Wayne Enterprises" uttered again.

And then she heard another voice, garbled and mechanical and almost dissonant. Like it was being filtered through a voice-warping software.

Prue clenched her jaw. It was coming from the mask.

 _Bane._

"Please, can I go?" she pleaded, staring back at the bearded henchman.

"Not yet," he replied coolly. "You have to get paid first."

"That's okay, it's – it's on the house," she mumbled, trying to keep her wits about her. It had only been a week since the Stock Exchange. Oh, God, why was it happening again?

The man smiled a sinister smile. "Oh, no, he always pays his dues."

The argument had intensified in the other room. She could hear him now, could hear Bane pacing up and down, his weight shifting and sending vibrations through the floor.

The other man was shouting something obscene. She suspected that was Mr. Daggett.

"Please, I won't tell anyone –" she began again, but the bearded man simply placed a finger to his lips.

Prue clamped up.

The garbled voice spoke again. It sounded muddled but final. Like an intractable sentence. There was a sickening crunch and Prue heard the other man scream. Except it wasn't a normal scream, it was a kind of yelp, as if a dog or a small animal were being crushed to death.

Prue put a hand over her mouth. She didn't notice when her back hit the wall. She couldn't breathe.

What was happening? _Why_ was it happening?

There was a thud, like a dead body dropping to the floor. Heavy boots kicked it aside. The beast had finished with its prey.

Prue tried not to look, she tried to avert her eyes, but it was hard not to stare at the giant man striding down the corridor towards her. He was like a living missile whose aim never failed. She wanted to disappear into the wall.

"Food's here, boss," the bearded man said, nudging his head at Prue, as if _she_ were the meal.

"So it is," Bane replied, stopping a few feet short of her huddled position near the wall. She was trembling from head to toe, but at least she wasn't crying yet. No, that would happen when she saw the dead body. Corpses, especially fresh ones, always made her break.

Was this punishment, for talking back to him at the Stock Exchange?

Was he going to – to kill her too?

Prue ducked, preparing herself for something gruesome, but what he did next had nothing to do with violence.

Bane plunged a hand into his pocket and fished out a few bills. It was the most mundane of gestures she had ever seen.

His hands were gloveless, she noticed. He had killed with bare hands.

He held out the crumpled dollars to her, as if it was just another transaction.

"Take it," he beckoned in a calm voice.

Prue knew better than to defy him. She reached out, hand trembling, and took the money from his palm. Their fingers almost touched briefly, and she shrank back, alarmed by the contact, by its possibility.

Prue stared at the money stupidly. She'd forgotten what she was supposed to do with it.

"Now what do you say?" the beast asked, a challenge in his voice.

And Prue said for a second time to him,

"Thank you."

He appeared satisfied, although she could hardly tell what was underneath that mask. But he clearly enjoyed her discomfort. He enjoyed watching people at their worst.

She could have pocketed the money and left it at that, but the thought of a dead man at the end of that corridor propelled her to ask,

"Why did you - ?"

She couldn't finish her thought, because there were too many endings to her question. _Why are you in Gotham? Why did you kill that man? Why are you doing this?_

Bane's eyes were filled with a dark light that was eerily soothing, almost soporific. He was a cruel man, she could tell from the hardness of his body, but he was also oddly dignified.

"Until next time…Prudence."

She gave an involuntary gasp, the air rushing out of her mouth like an accusation.

"You have spoken my name. I have leave to say yours," he explained in the same dormant, almost lazy fashion. But she heard the cold threat lying underneath. If you call the beast, he will answer.

He signaled to his men.

The bearded henchman took hold of her shoulders and pulled her out of the suit almost gently.

The door was shut behind her.

Like before, Bane was letting her go.

* * *

She sat in her car for a long time. She'd parked it somewhere in a dank, remote alley not far from Daggett's building. She didn't trust herself to drive at the moment.

She fished in her pocket for her phone, only to discover that she'd either lost it, or the henchman had taken it from her when she wasn't paying attention.

She leaned her head against the wheel. Her blood was pounding in her ears.

 _Until next time… Prudence._

The funny thing was, he'd paused before saying her name. And the way he'd emphasized the words, it almost sounded like a fatherly warning, like telling a child, "until next time, vigilance".

She felt bile rise in her mouth. She had never hated her name more.

She had upset a murderous terrorist, and now he was going to haunt her. Just like her brother and mother.

She pulled out the bills he'd given her. She almost wanted to laugh.

He'd given her a tip.

* * *

 _A/N: thank you for your kind reviews, I hope you liked this installment!_


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Prue wondered if she'd broken any mirrors recently or stepped under any ladders, because this period of bad luck couldn't be a coincidence.

Now, on top of her Late Byzantine Period paper and helping Lisa out, she had to buy a new phone too.

She knew she'd lost it at the Daggett residence, and she was damned if she was ever going back to get it.

She was too afraid to do anything more than leave an anonymous tip to the police about Daggett and Bane. The operator didn't sound like she put much faith in her words, but she assured her they would look into it.

Prue saw nothing on the news in the following days to ascertain if they'd listened to her. In fact, Daggett's death was wrapped up in complete mystery. She googled him when she got home and realized he was a pretty important business man, even beyond Gotham, so it made no sense that he wouldn't be given more publicity. She even went on his company's website to check for updates, but nothing was disclosed.

Were the police hiding the crime on purpose? Why?

Had they not found the body? She had given them the address specifically. But then again, Bane and his men could've cleaned up by the time she found her way to a payphone.

 _Maybe that's why they took my phone._

Although she doubted that would've made a big difference. Even if she had called the police on time, they might've not caught him. Bane had managed to snub them at the Stock Exchange where they had been armed and ready to stop him.

She struggled with the nightmares for a week. The same dream, over and over; Bane, walking towards her in all his might, carrying his weight like a weapon. The same corridor, the same Japanese parting, the same dead body on the floor. She woke up clutching at invisible money, the echo of a 'thank you' on her lips.

Those two words haunted her more than anything else. What should be a polite reflex had now been become something perverse. She had expressed gratitude to a criminal twice in the span of a month. He had killed someone with his bare hands and she had given him a quiet _thank you_. She felt stupid and cowardly.

Lisa was not being much help. She was pestering Prue, trying to find out what had put her in a gloomy mood - well, gloomier than usual. Prue herself didn't know why she was hiding it from her. She still hadn't told her about her first confrontation with Bane. It seemed late now to tell her about the second. She almost felt Lisa wouldn't believe her. She could hardly believe it herself.

There was also the issue of apartment hunting. Lisa was far too picky for her own good; she kept circling places way above her pay range, in neighborhoods she couldn't afford. Prue suspected she was doing this in purpose, to delay actually having to move out.

"Look, I don't mind having you here," Prue lied guiltily, "but if you're going to stick around, you have to start paying rent. And replacing the milk."

"Next salary, I promise," Lisa assured her in a tone of voice that didn't actually assure Prue of anything.

Work was also being stressful. Her boss was none too happy she had lost her phone and had to renew all her contacts. Prue had kept quiet about the Daggett delivery, not wanting to cause him more alarm and endanger her employment (he might consider her a risk to his business, after all, if shitty things kept happening wherever she went), but she often felt tempted to reveal the sordid details, just to get him off her back. She'd had to dig in her own pockets to pay the failed delivery. She had stashed Bane's money in her glove compartment, where it sat like a corpse, festering, waiting.

It was all beyond her reach. And yet, she hadn't curled up in a ball yet.

She _had_ thought about quitting; two near-death experiences were ample reason to give up, but for some reason, she felt that this would be even more cowardly. Like throwing in the towel and admitting defeat. She had one year of grad school left, and she was going to pull through.

Not even terrorists could stop her there.

* * *

"Ms. Neill, while your paper certainly makes some valid points about the social ramifications of the Battle of Manzikert, I feel that you have crimped material from other courses and padded your work for mine," her professor informed her critically.

Prue licked her lips quickly. " _Technically_ , we can speak of the idea of 'empire hegemony' here too since the Battle of Manzikert led to Anatolia being conquered by the future Ottoman Empire…"

The professor met her statement with a raised eyebrow.

"Ms. Neill, when was the Ottoman Empire inaugurated as such?"

Prue sighed. "1299."

"And when does the Battle of Manzikert take place?"

"1071."

"So, roughly two hundred years earlier."

Prue knew when she was defeated.

"A _B-_ is perfect, Sir," she muttered, returning to her seat. She reasoned with herself that she could recover from this minor setback with her next paper. Besides, she had been under a lot of stress recently.

 _You would've probably gotten a B- even without the attacks_ , a treacherous voice whispered in her ear.

When her newly purchased (and sadly less reliable) phone buzzed, she welcomed the distraction.

She cracked a smile. It was an order from Mrs. Morris, one of her oldest, most loyal clients. She was a sweet old lady who always made sure to fill Prue's backpack with lots of home-made scones after every delivery. Mrs. Morris loved to bake, but she didn't like to cook anything else. Prue considered this to be uniquely cool. A ride to her place would definitely cheer her up after class, if nothing else.

* * *

"Come in, sweetheart," the old woman's voice greeted her from inside.

Prue loved Mrs. Morris' apartment, it was small and intimate and decorated with strange knickknacks from her travels. The woman was very fond of African masks.

Prue usually lingered in the hallway to see if she had acquired anything new, but this time around something else caught her eye.

Mrs. Morris was sitting erect in a chair in the middle of her living room, her fingers clutching the arms of the chair, her face a strange, white grimace.

"Mrs. Morris?"

It took Prue two seconds to figure out what was wrong. She should have _known_. What had Bane told her? _Until next time...Prudence._ She hadn't listened.

Someone was standing behind the old woman, someone holding a gun.

"Prue, I'm _so_ sorry…" the old woman trailed off, her mouth moving spasmodically.

She didn't recognize this henchman, but she knew right away it was one of Bane's men. Everything about his gait and attire confirmed it.

Prue raised her hand in a plea. "Please don't hurt her. Please."

The man pressed the tip of his gun to the back of Mrs. Morris' head, making the poor woman flinch.

"Go into the bedroom," he instructed her in a cool voice.

"Is – is _he_ here?" Prue asked, trying to keep her voice level, although the end of her question sounded slightly hysterical.

The man cocked his head to the side, as if considering her. "No, but he sends his regards. Now go into the bedroom. Or else."

He cocked the gun, and the sound echoed against Mrs. Morris' skull, making her cry out.

"Okay, okay," Prue expelled quickly. She wouldn't let her friend get hurt in her stead. The idea of causing more pain made her sick to her stomach.

"Hang on, Mrs. Morris. I'll be right back. And you... don't you hurt her," she told the man with a degree of boldness she did not feel.

She turned and walked on shaking legs towards the end of the hallway. She was reliving the scene in Daggett's apartment.

But this time…this time…

The bedroom door was open.

Prue stepped in warily. There was no one there.

Except, there was something black and compact lying on the bed. Something that made her instinctively draw back.

"Did you find the briefcase?" the man's voice carried faintly down the hall.

"Y-yes," she called back.

"Pick it up, put it in your backpack," he instructed.

Prue hesitated, staring at the gleaming case. It looked larger than your average briefcase; it also looked like it was made from a special material for sensitive cargo. There was a cipher on the handle.

"Be quick about it, I don't have all day," the man's voice sounded impatient, almost nasty. There was a clear difference between him and Bane; the latter never needed to lose his cool to inspire absolute fear.

But Prue was scared enough to comply. She picked up the briefcase gingerly. It was weighty, but not too weighty. She fingered it carefully on both sides, trying to decipher what was inside, but it was a fool's errand. The material was impregnable. At least it wouldn't kill her back. She stuffed it quickly in her backpack and made her way to the living room.

"Show me," the man demanded, still holding the gun to the old woman's head.

Prue unzipped her backpack.

"Good. You'll get a text with an address. You're to take the cargo to that address. No funny business. Got it?"

Prue blinked in disbelief. "You want me to…deliver this package?"

The man smirked nastily. "Boss said that was your job, after all."

 _Boss said…_

Prue gritted her teeth. "I can't do this."

"Can't you? Well, I guess your friend here is gonna die a pointless death."

Mrs. Morris was crying quietly, holding her liver-spotted fists to her mouth. Her whole body was wracked by sobs.

Prue felt her heart break. _No._

"How do I know you won't hurt her after I leave?"

The man sneered. "Boss said to keep her alive. You'll have to take his word for it."

Prue hated how Bane's absence was not really an absence. He was there with them, in the shadows, in the unspoken pauses. In the orders.

"Why can't _his_ men deliver it? I'm just a student. If someone intercepts me on the way –" she started.

The man laughed cruelly. "Exactly. No one will. You are just a student."

Prue realized he was right. She was the perfect cover. A young girl driving a delivery car. What could be more innocent and mundane than that?

"You're wasting time," the man reminded her impatiently. "Your friend can't survive that long."

Mrs. Morris gave a shake of her head, as if to warn Prue not to do it, but she wasn't about to let the poor woman _die_ for a simple delivery. She was good at this. She could do it.

"Okay...okay."

* * *

As she drove along the winding streets of Gotham Heights, hands slightly shaking on the steering wheel, backpack sitting dutifully in the seat next to her, she wondered how they had tracked down Mrs. Morris, how they had known she was a friend.

 _My phone,_ she realized. _He took my phone._

She didn't know how to process that information. She was transporting something that was surely illegal for one of the most wanted men in Gotham. He had entrusted her with a delivery. Her Byzantine paper was far from her mind now.

Just as the henchman had promised, she received a text on her new phone.

An anonymous number. She recognized the address immediately, and her shock was considerable. She had expected a location like the Narrows, not the _Corporate_ District. That was the center of Gotham power. It was the most scrutinized, the most guarded, the most watched.

 _Oh._

They'd be on the lookout for someone like Bane and his men. But not for her.

Prue swore under her breath. She kept driving. She had to think of Mrs. Morris.

When she reached the designated address, she was startled to see the illustrious Wayne Tower in the near distance. She remembered now. _Wayne Enterprises_. Bane seemed to be very interested in this company.

As soon as her car stopped, she received another text.

The instructions were strange, to say the least. She was supposed to take a roundabout path towards the subway, dive into an alley and then…find the opening to a sewer.

She stood frozen for a few moments, not sure whether this was real or some kind of elaborate game.

A few moments later, she received another text with a photo attached.

 _Tick tock._ Mrs. Morris was sitting in the same chair, with her hands over her face.

"Definitely not a game," she whispered to herself. She felt like bursting into tears, but there wasn't enough time to have a breakdown _and_ deliver Bane's package. She had to suck it up.

She got out of the car, slipping the backpack over her shoulders.

Every step she took felt like she was digging her own grave. She kept glancing around, afraid that the few passers-by could tell she was up to no good. The _Al Fresco_ logos on her jacket and backpack did little to assuage her. Yes, she was camouflaged, but she felt she would betray herself in some insignificant way. She had a terrible poker face. She'd never committed a crime in her life. She had no talent for it.

Every small noise around her startled her, every shadow made her anxious. But she continued walking, until she reached the subway entrance and took a left into the alley next to it.

The smell was rotten from a few dumpsters which hadn't been relieved. A couple of mice scattered quickly out of her path. Prue wasn't surprised. Gotham overflowed with grime and dirt, even in the Corporate District.

She walked further into the poorly lit alley until she reached a dead-end. And there, in the center was a manhole.

In no time, she received a new text. _Drop the briefcase inside._

Prue thought this was ludicrous. These were the _sewers_. Why would Bane want something thrown down there?

But she wasn't here to argue, she was here to get the job done and save Mrs. Morris.

Maybe save herself too.

She knelt down on the dirty asphalt and struggled to pull the cement cover up.

It was heavier than she'd imagined. She wheezed and panted and bucked. Her nails were soon torn and red marks welled on her fingers, but she didn't give in. The lid gave away with a pop and she fell on her back with its weight on her chest.

"Ugh." She wriggled from underneath it and coughed deeply, trying to regain her breath.

Prue stared down apprehensively.

There was only darkness coming from the open hole. She could see nothing beyond it, no sign of life down there. She could only hear the dull leaking of sewer water.

With a sigh, she unzipped her backpack and took out the briefcase.

"If this is what you want."

She dropped it inside the hole gently.

Prue expected to hear a splash or some kind of thud, but there was nothing.

She held her breath, blocking out the traffic noise. It was as if the briefcase had fallen into something soft; a net or - or a pair of hands.

Yet there was nothing in that darkness. No one she could see.

But who could see _her_?

Prue drew back with a shudder. She zipped up her backpack, rolled the lid over the manhole until it screwed shut, and before she knew what was happening, she was running like mad towards the other end of the alley.

Only when she was back on the main street did she slow down.

She'd done it then. She'd delivered the briefcase.

She…was probably in deep shit.

Her phone buzzed with a new text. _Well done. If you tell anyone about this, you know what we can do._

A final image of Mrs. Morris appeared on the screen. The woman was on her knees in front of the chair, holding a hand over her chest. There was no man with a gun behind her.

Prue gritted her teeth. _You know what we can do._

God, who else could they target? There were a lot of people on her old phone. A lot of people she cared about.

What if they'd also found her father? They must have.

Prue couldn't walk any further. She collapsed on a nearby bench, hanging her head between her legs. This was a nightmare she wouldn't soon wake up from.

What would happen now? What would they do next? Or had this been a one-time job? Somehow, she doubted it.

She sat there for what felt like hours, contemplating her bleak future, or lack thereof.

She almost jumped when her phone started ringing.

Anonymous number.

 _Oh, for the love of God._

A spike of anger coursed through her, fast like lightning. What more did that awful henchman want from her?

She answered in a frenzy. "Tell your boss I did what he wanted, _all right_? I delivered the damn thing. Now leave Mrs. Morris alone. You should be _ashamed_ of yourself, threatening an old woman. Do you get a kick out of hurting someone less powerful, are you that insecure in your manhood –"

But she stopped halfway through her impassioned accusation. She heard a rattle on the other end. A kind of mechanical vibration which was devoid of humanity. It stilled the blood in her veins.

The silence went on for a few moments, uninterrupted.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Thank you, Prudence."

Prue opened her mouth, but no sound issued from her lips. Someone had wrapped a hand around her vocal cords, rendering her silent.

She could hear the gears behind his belabored breathing, the pistons of his mask.

She didn't realize he had hung up. She could still hear the horrible sounds in her ear.

 _Thank you, Prudence._

 _Thank you._

There they were; those two dreadful words again, a poisonous chant.

It was a kind of contract between them. One she hadn't known she'd signed.

And although Bane's warped timbre hardly contained any emotion, there was, underneath his simple thank you, the promise of _more_.

She thought about what the henchman had told her. No one would suspect someone like her. She was just a struggling student, delivering food. It really was the perfect cover.

 _Oh God. I'm - I'm his delivery girl._

Prue bent down and threw up on her shoes in the middle of the Corporate District.

* * *

 _A/N: thank you so much for your reviews, I was overwhelmed by the positive feedback! I hoped you enjoyed this one!_


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Prue sat in the delivery car with the laptop perched in her lap. She was typing up an email to one of her professors, asking for an extension on a paper.

 _...the reason for my tardiness is the fact that I am running errands for a possible terrorist/mercenary who might decide to kill me in the next 24 hours unless I do his bidding. Thank you for your understanding._

Prue heaved a sigh and pressed repeatedly on the backspace button.

She wondered if her professors would even care if they found out. As long as she delivered her assignments, she supposed she might as well be carted off in a body bag. It would be the same to them.

She reached for her midnight dose of Red Bull and swallowed down some painkillers. Her heart was racing. Any moment now, she'd get the call and she'd have to drive out.

She had already been on three deliveries so far. Each one had taken her into the depths of the most sophisticated Gotham neighborhoods. The kind of places where you could see Swedish au-pairs picking up children from private schools and depositing them in front of tall, iron-wrought gates, the stateliness of which always left her slightly breathless. She had seen opulence before, but never this close. These were the lands of gleaming skyscrapers, sparkling diamonds and 10.000 $ champagne. And she was infiltrating its confines on behalf of a madman.

She was begrudgingly impressed with Bane's genius; her innocuous delivery car sparked no interest on the avenues of the very wealthy.

On all three drives, she was told to do the same thing: namely, carry various containers to the mouths of sewers. For this was one thing that even the very rich shared with the very poor; public sewage.

Prue had debated for hours at end whether to leave the police another anonymous tip about the sewers. They hadn't exactly listened to her before. Fear of Bane and his men who now knew enough about her to make her life miserable kept her away from the authorities. But she felt complicit in whatever he was planning, and she hated the guilt gnawing at her bones. She desperately wanted to talk to someone, she just didn't know who. Bane _could_ find that person and –

She did not want to think beyond that.

So she numbed herself with painkillers and tried not to lose sight of what was important; keeping her loved ones (her dad, in particular) safe. She would not suffer losing another family member.

The ringtone made her jump. She pressed a palm over her mouth to still her breath.

 _Showtime._

"Yes. Hello."

"You'll receive a text with the directions. Memorize and delete. Start engine at half-past eight. Don't screw up," the anonymous henchman's voice recited in her ear.

"O-kay," she replied uncertainly, as she always did, and the henchman hung up.

Bane hadn't called to thank her since that first time, and she was relieved, but she could _sense_ him beyond his lackeys' words. She could sense his power and the way it reached through the phone and grasped her throat like a claw.

Even now, she reached up and touched the side of her neck, feeling as if a shadow had settled there.

Her phone buzzed with the instructions. Prue's eyes widened as she perused them carefully. This wasn't going to be a drop-off. She was supposed to _pick_ something up from the Narrows.

 _The Narrows._

She was going from the most affluent boroughs to…the slums.

The Narrows was known as Gotham's least hospitable region. It was an industrial island on the fringes of the city, and most Gothamites liked to forget it was there because it housed the infamous Arkham Asylum. From the looks of her instructions, the meeting point was in its vicinity.

Prue drummed her fingers nervously against the wheel. She'd never been to the Narrows before. Although there were a few residential buildings on the island, no one living there was in the habit of ordering food. Few vehicles made the journey to the island to begin with. The Asylum, though heavily guarded, made everyone feel uncomfortable and unsafe. No surprise there, since it housed the most criminally insane minds in the city. Prue got the shivers just thinking about it.

She was scared, but oddly, she felt _more_ comfortable knowing she wouldn't be driving up some swanky avenue dotted with illustrious mansions. You knew exactly what you got with The Narrows. There was no panache.

The streetlights rolled across the windshield like drunken fireflies. At this time of night, the air was solid with fog. She watched the buildings recede behind her as she made her way to the bridge that would take her out of the city and towards the island.

She was good at driving and she had always enjoyed it. Prue couldn't put it in words. It wasn't about speed or movement. She didn't like cars for their ability to transport her - not physically anyway.

Rather, she liked the confined space. She liked that the world around her seemed to fade and go quiet. It felt like being underwater. It had a calming effect on her. It made sleep easier afterwards.

Not that she would sleep tonight. Her throat felt dry. Her stomach was roiling. She could already see Arkham Asylum in the distance, its observation tower reaching up like a lighthouse from the sea.

 _You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine_ , she kept chanting in her head.

Prue had never wondered about what went on inside those walls. It was best not to contemplate such things, but she had a thought now that _Bane_ might end up there one day. She almost giggled, helplessly.

No, somehow, she could not picture that. He was too formidable.

She paid the toll at the bridge without looking at the toll collector. She drove forward blindly. The dirty waters of the Atlantic lopped against the metal rails of the bridge and made a playful, dirty sound in her ears.

The Narrows was steeped in a yellow, almost chemical haze. The buildings looked brittle, roughened by disuse. But the Asylum defied you like a proud plantation house, stretching endlessly across a wide perimeter, an old, aristocratic inheritance. Except for its thick wire-fence and observation post. Those looked quite modern.

Prue drove in a loop, avoiding Arkham's premises but sticking close by. There weren't many stop points on this island. She knew she was supposed to find a shut-up diner next to a chainsaw factory.

There was hardly another car on the road at this time of night, except for a patrol vehicle which she suspected belonged to Arkham. Even so, she didn't really stick out that much. Her car was neither shiny nor funny-looking. It could've passed for a cab. She was _fine_.

But really, what was Bane playing at, sending her here?

Eventually, she found the diner in question. The letters had been smudged and corroded beyond recognition, but she thought she could decipher the name. Albany? Albain? Albatross? Something along those lines.

What spooked her far beyond the unintelligible sign was the fact that the door to the diner was partly _open_. Even though the place looked like it hadn't been frequented in years. _Shit_.

Prue fumbled in her bag for the pepper spray. A feeble weapon perhaps, but it was better than nothing.

She sat in the car, holding the small can between her fingers, waiting. For what, she didn't know.

She had the upsetting suspicion that she was supposed to get out of the car and go inside.

The minutes ticked by on the car's digital watch as she sat, watching the ominous-looking entrance, trying to make up her mind about what she was supposed to do.

 _Don't screw up_ , the henchman had said.

Her phone belched out a text and Prue shrieked. "Jesus!"

 _Key under blue lamp._

That was the whole message.

Prue shook her phone angrily. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

It was pretty clear there were no blue lamps in her close vicinity. She would have to get out and go inside.

* * *

She had never been a very brave girl, and she wasn't about to start now, but fear was a potent motivator. Fear compelled her to act in most situations. In fact, Prue had lived with fear buried deep in her heart for most of her life. Fear that, one day, she would be heavily punished for her childhood crimes. Well, this might be what the gods had in mind for her.

She stepped inside the dilapidated diner, making sure not to brush against the door or touch any of the cobwebbed surfaces around her. She inhaled the dusty, stale air. The silence was periodically interrupted by small, scurrying sounds. She shuddered.

Prue surveyed the counter and its broken wood-paneling, swollen by moisture and yellowed by time. It didn't take her long to spot the contrasting splash of color lumped between empty bottles of soda. The chipped screen of the dirty blue lamp shone distinctly in the murky light. With uneasy fingers she picked it up and grappled for the key.

She had expected to find a rusty key to match the atmosphere of the locale, but instead she was met with clean, smooth steel. The key looked new, made for a modern fixture.

 _Now what?_

She didn't think she was expected to lock up the diner, for one. But she couldn't see any modern appliances anywhere. The place looked like it had been frozen in time, circa 1987.

Still, she persevered.

 _Don't screw up._

She waded her way through broken chairs, torn-up upholstery and upended tables (most of which had been stolen anyway) and spied a small corridor in the back which led to the restrooms and a utility closet.

The restroom doors were caved-in and warped, but the closet swung open with only an eerie creak.

Prue used her phone as a flashlight to peek inside.

There wasn't much to see. She only found more garbage and broken glassware, but there was one thing which stuck out like a sore thumb; a tall filing cabinet propped up against the wall. It didn't look like it belonged in this place.

 _Bingo._

She went straight for its drawers, relieved that the job was halfway done.

Prue tried the key on each of the small locks. Her surprise was hardly small when she realized the key fit none of them.

 _What the…?_

She tried again, with the same result. Prue exhaled through her nostrils. This was not happening. Either she had a bad case of butter fingers or this was some elaborate trap. What else was this stupid key supposed to open? She gave the cabinet a frustrated kick…and the whole thing shuddered.

 _Huh._

She kicked it again. The whole thing sounded hollow, empty.

Prue gripped the edges with both hands and pulled. _Holy shit_. The cabinet moved against her fingers quite easily. In no time, she'd shoved it out of the way and what was revealed behind it drove a cold chill down her spine.

It was a gleaming metal door with a round, pressurized lock. The kind you see in special facilities that thrive on privacy. She could tell right away that the key would fit.

* * *

The tunnel looked like it was infrequently used, since the smell was overwhelmingly musty, but there must have been ventilation somewhere because there was only an inkling of mold and moisture gathered in the corners. The darkness beyond looked milky-grey, as if there was a source of light somewhere in the distance.

Prue stood on the threshold, holding the key in her hand. Secret tunnels weren't exactly a shocker in a place like Gotham, but she had an absolute and terrifying certainty that this one led _straight_ into Arkham. The proximity was too incriminating. And this wasn't just a way _into_ the Asylum, but a way _out_ of it too.

How many ways out were there?

A sudden terror seized her lungs. What if a murderous lunatic were to jump out of the dark at her? What if a madman with an ax –

Prue froze.

She was certain she had heard a small cough coming from the dark. The certainty solidified when she heard footsteps in the distance. Coming closer.

 _Fuck. It's the ax-murderer. Fuck._

Prue felt tempted to shut the heavy door in their face and make a run for it, but before she could make up her mind, a frail figure emerged around the corner and was made visible to her.

It certainly did not _look_ like a dangerous lunatic.

In fact, it looked like an elderly Chinese man, dressed in grey overalls, the color of which matched the tunnel walls to a startling degree.

Prue waited with bated breath. She had the pepper spray ready in her pocket, just in case, but the old man was only carrying a small cardboard box. It was an ordinary box, the kind college students used to pack their belongings. Hell, she had several of them at home.

The man did not seem at all startled by her. He had clearly expected for someone to be at the door. He was yet another delivery man.

Prue wondered how Bane had managed to recruit someone who looked like a mild-mannered family man.

"Good evening," he finally spoke when he was five feet away from her. His features looked drawn-out in ink in the blue light of her phone.

Prue shifted on her feet. "Good evening."

"Hm. He said female, but this is not what I expected," he murmured, still holding the box to his chest.

Prue cleared her throat nervously. "At least they told you the gender. They…told me nothing."

"Smart," he ascertained, nodding his head. "It's better you don't know."

"Why?" she asked, a slight accusation in her voice.

The man cocked his head to the side. "Do you _want_ to know?"

Prue realized that, in fact, she didn't. She wanted to stay as untouched by these sordid affairs as possible, even as she was standing at the entrance of a secret tunnel with a strange Chinese man.

She changed tacks. "Well, I almost didn't find the door."

"Yet you did. These things are instinctual," he replied without hesitance.

He sported a purple birthmark on his left cheek, and she found herself captivated by its fleshy form.

"Maybe. But this seems like a big risk. Anyone could come in here and comb the place and then…" she trailed off, waving her arm around them. She hated how she almost sounded _nice_ about it. She should have sounded angrier.

To her shock, the old man smiled. His face rippled like broken lake.

"You haven't been doing this very long, have you? Things must be left in the open, young lady. We hide by not hiding at all."

Prue blinked. She absorbed the words too quickly and she did not understand them at all, but later, she would think on them and realize he was right. Everything Bane and his men were doing was actually out in the open, which was why they did not get caught. Using her was one such example.

At the moment, though, she was more concerned about the box he was holding.

"I suppose that's for me?"

He nodded. "Should provide interesting reading material."

He leaned forward and deposited it in her open arms. Its heft was not negligible. When she looked up at him, she noticed what the box had been covering. The official tag on his chest. The overalls were not simple overalls. It was a uniform.

"You work at the Asylum," she blurted out. It was obvious.

"Ah, I'm only a simple orderly," he excused himself, shuffling away from her direct gaze.

Prue had known that this job would be connected to the Asylum, one way or another, but to have the physical proof in her arms was quite disturbing. From what the man had told her, she was most likely holding stolen documents.

"And what do you do when you don't serve him?" he asked her politely.

 _Serve him_. Prue wrinkled her nose. "I…uh, I'm a student."

"What do you study, then?"

"History."

The old man shook his head sadly. "Why study it, when we never seem to learn from it?"

Prue was about to protest, but he held up a wrinkled palm. "Enough for tonight. Go. Tell the master you have completed your task."

"He's not my master," she said, but the tunnel was already deserted. He had disappeared too quickly.

* * *

Even though she had left Arkham Asylum behind her, Prue still felt its presence in the air, like the stench of incense. The cardboard box sat obediently in the back seat. Her fingers ached on the steering wheel. She was wracked with curiosity; what was in those papers? She wanted to open the box and pour over them like a famished dog, but she was afraid of what she might find. The case histories of madmen? Their bloody and sinister endeavors? Their bloodcurdling pathologies?

She watched the streets go by like unspooled wool. Everything about this city felt only half-finished, as if someone had decided to saw some of its parts off and leave it stunted. There was so much she didn't know about it, she realized. She had been living in Gotham for over a year and hadn't been in the Narrows until tonight.

When she unlocked the front door of her apartment, Lisa was thankfully not in front of the TV. She was sound asleep in Prue's bed.

Prue felt glad for small miracles. She dumped the box in the hallway, afraid she'd be tempted to rifle through it if she brought it inside the apartment proper. She walked dazedly towards the kitchen to fetch herself a drink. She hadn't been this exhausted since undergrad.

"Jesus Christ!"

She pressed both palms against her mouth to push back the scream that threatened to escape her lips.

There was someone towering over her modest living room. A gargantuan figure which seemed to reject the moonlight filtering through the window.

She should have heard his breathing from the doorway, but she had been absent-minded and reckless and _stupid_. Now, the machinery of his being came into clear focus and it was the only thing she _could_ hear.

Like the ticking of an incessant clock.

How had Lisa not noticed – how had he gotten inside – what was he doing _here_?

All of these questions must have been reflected in her wide-eyed stare, because he removed himself from the window and walked towards her. His gait was graceful, though the earth seemed to shake in his wake. Like a predatory feline whose instincts, though ferocious, left room for dignity.

Prue stepped back clumsily.

"I – I got the box," she stage-whispered, clutching at the wall behind her.

"So I see." He hardly deigned to look towards the hallway. His small black eyes were seeing through her and through the wall itself. What he saw beyond that, she couldn't tell.

His voice was diffuse, dispersed, like a string of pearls clattering against her eardrum. She forced herself to be present and not get lost in these horrid sensations.

"I did what you told me," she repeated, slowly, purposely. "You didn't need to…" _Show up. Like a specter._

"Oh, but I did," he replied in a wry mechanical warble. "I trust no one else with this particular charge."

Prue parted her lips. So, he had come to pick up the box in person. She regretted now not having taken a quick look inside. She had underestimated its importance.

"But you…trusted _me_ with it?" she argued, eyeing the incriminating box, lying on the floor only a few feet away.

If only she could run to it and open it.

"No," he said, the corners of his eyes folding, either with rage or humor, she could not tell. The mask which covered his face like a snout prevented the ripples of real emotion. "I simply know you don't have the power to betray me."

Prue leaned against the wall. She felt that this was very presumptuous of him. Yes, he was a beast, but was she quite so domestic and small in his eyes?

"You can't be sure of that."

His shadow seemed to reach forward and trap her against the wall, even as he stood several feet away.

"I could have taken the box to the police," she tried again.

"No, you couldn't have."

Prue hated how right he was. How obedient she had proved herself to be. What did she have against him? He could hurt the people she cared for. She could hurt no one.

She lifted her chin, desperate for leverage. "You should be careful. If you meddle with Arkham Asylum, you might just end up there."

Nothing about his visage changed, but she saw that the veins across his large hands had turned black in the moonlight. He hummed under his breath, an odd, broken sound.

"You have a use, my dear. Do not overreach it."

His words sounded deceptively like advice. He spoke like a schoolteacher, a scholar with a penchant for too much smoking. But beyond this façade was his herculean power, waiting to be tested.

Prue's breath caught in her throat like a fishbone. "What happens when I stop being useful?"

The beast regarded her calmly, and ignored her question.

Instead, "Get rid of her."

Prue frowned. "What?"

Bane nodded his head towards her bedroom.

"You mean _Lisa_?"

He hummed.

"Why?"

"She is an inconvenience."

Prue felt it must be a cosmic joke that both she and Bane shared this sentiment about her roommate. But in this moment, she felt oddly defensive of Lisa, who was, deep down, a pretty decent person.

"She's my friend and she needs my help."

"Do it, or I will dispose of her for you," he announced without much decorum.

Prue opened her mouth to speak but he raised a finger to silence her. There was no room for argument here.

For the first time, Prue wondered if Lisa had _really_ gone to bed or if, perhaps, Bane had squeezed the life out of her, the way he had crushed Daggett –

He seemed to guess her line of inquiry instantly, for, this time, she was _sure_ the crinkling at his eyes was a perverse mark of humor. He found her suppositions amusing.

 _Screw you_ , she screamed with her eyes.

But he moved beyond her like a shadow towards the hallway. He picked up the cardboard box like it was nothing and slipped it under his arm.

"Thank you," were his last words before he crept back into the night.

Prue closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the wall. Their well-rehearsed refrain.

 _Thank you._

 _You are not welcome._

* * *

 _A/N: Much like Bane, I thank you for your reviews and encouragements! Hope you enjoyed this installment._


	5. Chapter 5

5.

Prue was trying to keep her eyes on the page, but they kept running off. She had been reading the same ghastly paragraph about pogroms for the past ten minutes. Her midnight adventures were catching up to her. Her eyelids fluttered shut just as her bedroom door burst open.

"I – I was reading, I swear!" Prue babbled incoherently, dropping the hefty _Bloodlands: Europe Between Hitler and Stalin_ volume in the process.

But it wasn't one of her professors, demanding to hear her thoughts on the assigned reading.

"Whoa, chill out, it's only me…" Lisa trailed off, chewing on her lip nervously.

Prue paused, rubbing her eyes. Lisa was hardly ever nervous. It was one quality Prue admired and envied.

"Sorry, do you need anything?"

"Well," Lisa loitered, staring towards the hallway self-consciously. "There's someone at the door. Saying they're your boyfriend."

Prue blinked. She felt a sore lump in her throat, no doubt the beginning of a seasonal cold.

" _What_?"

Lisa shrugged. "He said he's your guy, and he – I don't know, he said some other weird shit. You should talk to him."

Prue was already getting up and pulling a robe over her pajamas. Her stomach had dropped several levels below sea. She had a strong inkling she knew who was at the door. She had guiltily neglected bringing up the subject of moving out to Lisa, even though Bane had explicitly told her to get rid of her.

She swallowed dryly, panic flooding her senses. Was she going to be punished? Was Lisa –

Before she could contemplate matters further, she found she was walking – blindly – towards the front door.

" _Finally_ ," a familiar, yet not-so-familiar voice drawled out. "I was beginning to think you were ignoring me, babe."

He spoke with a faint Aussie accent that was very likely put on. But it wasn't just the voice; he looked completely different.

Prue recognized him as the bearded henchman from the Stock Exchange, the same one from Daggett's penthouse. But he had lost the beard and he was wearing a bright red jacket, designer jeans and a baseball cap, turning him into a totally different person. She only managed to identify him because the stark blue of his eyes and the sneering expression on his face were hard to forget.

Those same blue eyes were now filled with forged warmth and affection, but underneath all that, they warned her not to deviate from the script.

 _Play along_ , they said. He stood in the doorway with a bouquet of azaleas and a bottle of wine.

"Er…" Prue trailed off, tightening the cordon around her robe. "Hi."

"You _know_ the guy?" Lisa asked over her shoulder.

"Ben," he introduced himself with a benign grin. "Prue's boyfriend, like I said. Prue, sweetheart, don't be rude, introduce me properly."

Prue turned on the spot, feeling her cheeks slowly turn the color of tomatoes.

"Uh, yeah, sorry I haven't mentioned … _Ben_ before. We like to keep it private. We mostly hang out at his place."

"We're not _that_ private," he interjected, stepping now into the apartment proper. Lisa didn't stop him, as she was curious to hear more. "We've been together for two months now, and the only reason she hasn't brought me over is because," and now he addressed Lisa directly, " _you_ 're here, no offense."

Lisa gaped, bewildered. "Wh-what?"

"Tell her darling," he insisted, depositing the flowers and wine on the coffee table.

Every eye was now on Prue, who felt woefully outnumbered. She cleared her throat, padding for time. "Well, you see, the thing is…"

"I'm sorry," Lisa interrupted, shaking her head, "you've been with _someone_ for two months and you kept it a secret?"

"It wasn't a secret, I just didn't feel like sharing that part of my life," Prue replied, with some degree of honesty. She wouldn't have shared her love life with someone who had just gotten out of a tumultuous relationship.

"Well, maybe you _should_ have since now I hear you're complaining about me to Ben," Lisa remarked archly.

Prue hated how quickly _Ben_ had become a reality. She wished she could shout "It's all a big fat lie!" in their faces, but that would probably get her killed. She took a deep breath and chose to be smart.

"I didn't complain about you. _He_ asked me about coming over, and I told him you'd just broken up with someone, and I didn't want to rub my relationship in your face. Isn't that right, _Ben_?" she asked the henchman sweetly, clenching her fists behind her back.

He looked mildly impressed at her repartee and nodded emphatically. "Yeah, Prue is such a _sensitive_ soul, she thinks of everyone but herself. It's a real problem sometimes. But enough is enough, Lisa. I gotta put my foot down. I want to share this space with my _girl_ " (Prue suffered a minor heart attack at the term of endearment) "and you've got to move out and move on. Plenty of fish in the sea, and all that."

Lisa stared at him in helpless denial. She couldn't quite believe this was happening. "Ben" suddenly placed a large hand on her arm.

Prue flinched, repressing the impulse to jump to her friend's rescue.

Lisa looked up with trustful eyes at the man who was holding her gently. "You've got to strike out on your own, Lisa. Someone will _snatch_ you up, you'll see. Some lucky fellow. But this isn't your home anymore. And it sure won't be once I move in."

Prue noticed that his hold had seamlessly turned into a grip, and she also noticed that Lisa shrank back, as if she was in pain.

"O-Okay, I understand. You guys need your space. Just give me a few days to –"

"None of that, love. An hour should suffice. You're a big girl," he corrected her with fatherly authority.

Lisa nodded, dumbfounded. She didn't even look at Prue as she walked quietly to the bedroom to collect her belongings.

Prue couldn't believe it. She stared after her friend in shock. It had been _that_ easy.

"Ben" leered at her from the couch where he had planted himself with the bottle of wine.

Prue glared at him. "Don't get too comfortable."

She followed Lisa back into the bedroom, meaning to talk things over, but her friend was unusually taciturn as she packed quickly and efficiently. She wouldn't let Prue help her. This was a rather novel side to Lisa that she hadn't seen before.

"But where will you go?" Prue asked her when she saw that she'd filled up two suitcases and was almost ready to leave. Lisa had made it clear to her at the beginning that she had no other options.

But the girl laughed bitterly. "Oh, don't worry about me, I've got other _friends_."

And that was that. In another quarter of an hour she had said her goodbyes and was out the door.

Prue stood in the middle of her empty apartment. She was not sure she wasn't dreaming.

"Ben" was flipping through her TV channels.

She inhaled quickly, afraid of losing momentum, and walked into the living room.

"How did you do that? How did you convince her to go so quickly?"

The henchman shrugged, not taking his eyes off the screen. The warmth in them was gone. "She's the type of girl who only responds to men."

Prue wrinkled her nose. That's a broad generalization."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You college types think you know better, eh?"

"Well, I hope you didn't shave just so you could play my boyfriend," Prue quipped, dashing into the kitchen nervously to find a vase for the azaleas. With Lisa gone, she was now alone in her apartment with one of Bane's men. Not a happy thought. She had to find something to do lest she start screaming.

"Don't you worry," she heard him drawl from behind her. "My hair grows back fast."

He stalked into the kitchen after her, and proceeded to look through her cupboards as if he owned the place.

Prue hoped her voice wasn't shaking as she turned on the tap. "May I _help_ you with something?"

"Yeah, where's the corkscrew?"

She indicated a drawer to her left, keeping her eyes on the vase she had removed from under the sink and which she was filling up with water.

She watched him as he uncorked the bottle of wine with a loud pop and sniffed its mouth with interest.

"Sauvignon Blanc," he informed her, as if she couldn't read the label. "Lady at the store said it's a great house-warming gift. Careful now, you're spilling water."

Prue removed the vase from the sink.

"Why did you come here? What do you want?" she asked, feeling that sufficient time had passed to skip the small talk.

The man eyed her with a crooked smirk. "I think we both know I'm here because you couldn't do what you were told."

Prue split the azaleas with shaking hands. She dropped a handful in the vase. "I was going to kick her out eventually."

"Eventually…" he echoed dismissively. "Well, I took care of it for you. You should say thank you."

Prue remained stubbornly quiet, but he didn't seem to mind.

"With that settled," he continued, "we _do_ have every intention of moving in."

Her eyes widened. " _We_? Who's we?"

The man grinned. "Come now, love. We're all comrades here. Part of the same _family_. Me and my boys will be moving in and out of this place whenever it suits us."

Prue faltered. "Hang on, you can't do that, I've got neighbors and friends who might drop by –"

He waved off her protests. "Do you think we're thick or something? Your little flat is just _one_ of our bases of operations. We've got dozens across the city. We know how to be discreet. Also, you've got next to no friends."

Prue didn't know which part insulted her the most, but she focused on the middle-half.

"Your boss was here, in my apartment, a few nights ago. How was that discreet?"

The henchman removed two wine glasses from a cupboard and poured an equal amount in each.

" 'twas discreet since no one noticed. Least of all your ditsy roommate. Now she's gone, we'll have no problems."

He pushed one of the glasses in her direction. "Drink up and relax."

Prue pinched the bridge of her nose. "How am I supposed to relax when I have to offer up my apartment as some kind of headquarters?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's hardly that. We just like to know it's available."

"What if it isn't?" she asked, stepping away from him.

The smirk gracing his lips slowly vanished. His eyes surveyed her with cold interest. "Then we'd have a problem, love. Because once you sign up with us, you don't get to back out."

"But I didn't sign up," she protested, feeling cold sweat building on her upper lip. "Bane just sort of _recruited_ me –"

"And you went along with it and delivered our cargo, more than once. That means you're in." He raised a finger, anticipating her dissent. "That's non-negotiable."

He drained his glass and smacked his lips in a way that made her skin prick.

Prue clenched her teeth. She knew she had to pick her battles, and this "non-negotiable" issue would have to rest until she figured out how to deal with it. For now, she'd try to act like she wasn't losing her marbles. She started counting back from one hundred and picked up the glass of wine he'd offered. That was the first thing to do with enemies. Be gracious, accept their bid, and plot behind their back. She'd read too many accounts of the Fall of Rome not to understand these basics. The second step was getting acquainted.

"Can you at least tell me the name of the operation? What this is all about?" she asked, gripping the glass to breaking point.

The man smiled, invigorated. "Afraid not."

"But you said I'm one of you. Shouldn't I know what group I'm a part of –"

"Ah, but you don't have clearance yet. If you gain our trust, you might come to learn a thing or two. But few ever do," he remarked conceitedly.

Prue sighed. "Can you at least tell me _your_ name then?"

"That's easy. Barsad."

She blinked. "Come again?"

"It's Barsad."

She hesitated. "…like the character from _A Tale of Two Cities_?"

He shrugged. "If you like."

"Is that what _he_ calls you?"

Barsad nodded, ambling back towards the living room.

"I don't even remember my real name anyway," he called out, settling down on the couch.

Prue shivered as she stood in the doorway. How did one go about forgetting their own name? "That's…kind of sad."

The henchman threw back his head and laughed a hoarse laugh. "You're an odd one, you know that? But you've got your uses."

* * *

Prue didn't have to wait long to confirm that Barsad had spoken the truth. In the coming days, she noticed movement in her apartment, particularly when she wasn't there to witness it. She would return from classes or from a shift at _Al Fresco_ to find a few dirty glasses in the sink which hadn't been there or a that a cushion had been moved to the opposite end on the couch. Her curtains would be half-drawn, or a picture on the wall would be crooked. The bathroom mat would bear the mark of a stranger's boot. She had found no alterations in her own bedroom, thankfully, but she couldn't be sure they hadn't gone in there as well. In fact, she came to realize that they left these noticeable traces for _her_ benefit, to let her know they had come by. For none of her neighbors seemed to notice their comings and goings.

They came in small numbers, never more than two at a time, and they were usually masked, or if they showed their faces, they looked so anonymous to her she wouldn't be able to place them. Barsad was the only familiar and he only dropped by rarely.

At first, she was terrified of the idea that these men could barge in in the middle of the night and do God knows what to her and her belongings. But that fear soon turned into disorientation, because they did very little barging. In fact, they were weirdly _civilized_. If they happened on her when she was in the apartment, they moved quietly and out of the way, whispering under their breath but otherwise leaving her well alone. They worked mainly in the living room, where they tinkered with all kinds of equipment and studied all kinds of documents on their laptops. If they had any weapons on them, they concealed them. They didn't flaunt their arsenal like they'd done at Daggett residence. They were...half-way quotidian. One would have mistaken them for a bureau of information. They even stocked the fridge, occasionally, when she forgot to buy food.

It was horribly domestic.

They were taking ownership of the place, and while it was true they did not infringe on her privacy as much as they could have, she still felt that she had moved in with an entire criminal mob. Every time she contemplated going to the authorities, they made sure to remind her she was part of the whole scheme.

Barsad even asked about her dad, if he was in good health, if he was taking his heart medication. It was enough to silence her.

Bane did not return to her apartment in the following weeks, and she took small relief in that. She couldn't have borne a second visit, although she had an inkling it was coming.

Meanwhile, she had to stay on top of her school work, still deliver food _and_ do small jobs for Bane and his mercenaries. It was a wonder she was still kicking.

But…as the infamous Joker of Gotham had once said, what doesn't kill you, only makes you stranger.

* * *

"Wake up, darling. We've got work to do."

Prue rolled over and pulled her blanket over her head. "Mno…Dad, I don't wanna go to school today."

"That's a good thing then, cuz that's the last place you're going."

She blinked one bleary eye open to find Barsad crouched at her bedside, his blue eyes scanning her coolly.

Prue gave a shriek and got up so fast she almost pulled a muscle. Her legs got tangled in the sheets as she tried to jump out of the bed.

"Relax, love. I'm not going to eat you. We've been on our best behavior, haven't we?" he drawled, rolling his eyes at her comical display.

He dumped a suit bag at her feet, stalling her escape.

"What's this?"

"Your outfit for tomorrow evening."

"What's happening tomorrow evening?"

"Have a peek inside first," he said, nudging his head at the bag.

Prue wanted to howl. She'd had a long day at _Al Fresco_ and an even longer evening trying to crib a few notes for her dissertation plan which she was supposed to present to her advisor early on Monday. She was really _not_ in the mood for games.

She pulled on the zipper savagely, her patience running thin.

Inside, she discovered a kind of... formal dress wear.

"What the hell…?"

"You're going to a charity ball, love, aren't you glad?"

Prue stared at him in utter confusion. "A charity _ball_?"

"Yes, we don't just send you to sewers, see? Now you can clamp that mouth shut and listen closely. You'll be one of the hostesses for the evening. "

Prue pulled out the black number she was supposed to don, her eyes widening. It was a very tasteful dress, but not something she'd ever afford or willingly wear.

"Don't look so surprised," Basard continued with a rueful smile, "this is a fancy event so even the servers have to be dressed up."

"I don't understand, why am I supposed to –"

"I'm getting to _that_ ," he retorted, annoyed. "You're going to be one of our people on the scene. Your job is to deliver the goods, as always. We'll establish a target and a dropping point."

Prue's head was reeling. So far, she had only driven the delivery car to various spots across the city, which though highly dubious, had been fairly inconspicuous. This was something else entirely.

"But everyone will see me…"

"I really doubt it, love. Not to offend you, or anything, but you're no striking beauty. And plus, there'll be a dozen girls like you there, greeting people at the door, handing them champagne and whatnot."

"Well, that's a huge relief," she muttered sardonically.

"It should be."

"Why do you need _me_ for this? Why can't someone else go?" she asked in a plaintive tone.

"Well, first off, none of my men would fit in this dress," he teased. His face was pinched with meanness. "And secondly, you don't ask the questions here."

Prue gritted her teeth. "I thought we had a dialogue."

"You thought wrong." He cocked his head to the side. "Although you could use your head and figure it out on your own."

Prue gripped the sheer material of the dress in her hands. "Let me guess. I'm inconspicuous and small and can infiltrate the place easier."

"Ya see?" he said with a shark-like grin. "You got it."

She glared at him. "I get many things. What I don't get is why you have to infiltrate a charity ball to begin with."

Barsad shook his head in amusement. "You'll find out, or you won't. I'll come by in the morning with further instructions."

"But I have to meet with my advisor tomorrow morning –"

"Cancel it."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"Or reschedule, whatever suits you."

"Are you mad? I can't just reschedule a meeting that's been planned since -"

The henchman was upon her before she had space to breathe. He backed her into the wall, between her wardrobe and her desk, like a sardine.

His eyes had a metallic gleam to them, like cut steel. "Call me mad again and see what happens."

Prue swallowed thickly. "I didn't mean –"

"No, you didn't. You're smarter than that, aren't you?"

Prue nodded weakly. "I just can't upend my whole life –"

"Oh, now. You don't want _him_ to come and talk to you, do you?"

Vivid fear flickered across her face like a film reel.

"Because boss has been meaning to have a _chat_. Make sure you're not feeling neglected." His tone was deceptively light, but the implication weighed on her skin.

Prue inhaled sharply. "I'll be here tomorrow morning."

"Good girl."

He moved away from her, leaving behind only the scent of violence.

"Oh, and try on the dress, see if it suits you," he suggested on the way out.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you once again for all your lovely reviews, I'm thrilled you're interested in the story. I hope you don't mind my take on Barsad, or the fact that I'm changing the chronology and plot sequence (the charity ball happens much earlier than this, but bear with me), that's what fanfiction is for, after all. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! More Bane coming soon._


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Prue dabbed generous dollops of concealer under her eyes. The maître d' had told her to "fix that shit on your face" when he saw her walk into the dining room. He didn't want her to frighten the guests away.

 _Haha._

Prue had already come up with several colorful invectives at his expense, all muttered under her breath when he wasn't nearby.

To be fair, the dark circles under her eyes _did_ look like volcano craters, but was it her fault she had barely got any sleep?

The bathroom door flew open. An older woman draped in a gown that trailed like hard cement behind her marched in, holding a glitzy purse under her elbow.

" _Oh_. I was under the impression that staff had separate restrooms."

Prue fiddled with the hem of her dress. "Sorry, _ma'am_ , it was an emergency."

The older woman stared at her concealer-coated fingers and her ratty makeup bag. " _Clearly_."

"I'll be out of your way in a minute –"

"Actually, I think you could do your business elsewhere."

Her frosty tone left room for no argument. Prue heaved a sigh and swallowed a cutting remark she could have made about the woman's Botox-injected face.

But she had to be the bigger person. That, and Barsad had told her not to draw unnecessary attention to herself. It was very galling to be kicked out of a bathroom when you hadn't even _wanted_ this job. She certainly had never envisioned being a hostess. But there had been many things she hadn't envisioned before the Stock Exchange.

Prue sucked in her stomach once she was out in the corridor. The dress was made for someone with a perfectly flat belly, which is why taking a breath in it felt like a whole work-out. The heels were also an infuriating test of stamina, especially since she wasn't allowed to ever sit down.

No, she had to walk around the rooms with a tray of champagne and smile like a chipmunk.

On the upside, she couldn't see the guests' actual faces; everyone was wearing masks. It was the theme of the evening. The Charity Ball had been organized by a rich philanthropist, a woman called Miranda Tate. Prue couldn't tell you what the Fundraiser was for, since Barsad had been stingy with the details. It didn't seem to matter, though. Prue's job was to intercept her and collect something from her.

"It won't be hard to do that with a tray of champagne, now, will it?" Barsad had assured her with much aplomb. Prue had sat all morning going over the plan with him instead of attending the meeting she had scheduled with her advisor. She still felt a desperate gnawing in her stomach when she thought about her professor's inevitable disappointment. She had sent him an apologetic email, outlining her need for a postponement, but she was not sure that Professor Attwood could suffer any more delays. Barsad had laughed in her face. He was amused she still cared about something as frivolous as _school_.

Prue's attention was brought back to the task when a small commotion erupted in the main hall. She dragged herself to the servers' table and grabbed a tray, before walking out in the foyer on pinched feet.

 _Stomach in, chin up_ , she recited, plastering an absent smile on her lips. If only her seventh-grade Drama teacher could see her now.

She was a bit stumped when she saw that the photographers outside had started snapping their cameras in an almost manic fashion. She soon realized why they were getting excited. A new guest had walked through the doors.

"Oh my God, it's Bruce Wayne… Did you see him? It's definitely _him_ ," someone was saying behind her.

Other whispers and exclamations soon followed.

"I thought he was a recluse."

"I thought he was ill."

"So did I! He looks well."

"I heard he's gone off his rocker. All these playboys get a bit kooky when they hit middle age."

"He's not _that_ old."

Prue snuck a look over her shoulder. She could see his stooped outline as he walked into the crowd. He was carrying a cane of all things.

She didn't know much about the famed millionaire or his period of isolation, but his last name was spread over several buildings in town. And she knew Bane had a vested interest in him. He had almost bankrupted Wayne Enterprises at the Stock Exchange, and then her first delivery happened to be close to Wayne Tower…all of these things added up. Either Bane had a personal vendetta against him or this was a business transaction. In both cases, she allowed herself the hope that it wouldn't lead back to her. The world of the rich had its own rules. She was only a bystander.

 _Am I?_

The maître d' snapped his fingers in her direction. She and a few other gawking girls hurried back into the ballroom.

Prue raised a hand to her hair to tuck a stray lock in. She had pinned it up at the back of her head, but the weight of it was making her scalp hurt. Add it to the list of injustices for the evening.

She had to keep her eyes peeled for Miranda Tate. She had seen the woman from afar, but hadn't managed to get close, because she was always surrounded by a bevy of donors. She seemed very refined and delicate, all things considered. It didn't seem possible that she would have anything to do with Bane and his cohort. But perhaps the woman had no idea who she was dealing with.

Prue craned her neck over the bobbing heads and black masks.

"Champagne, please?"

She managed to hide a momentary flinch as she turned around to greet a gorgeous masked woman who was sporting a pair of black cat ears to go with her costume.

 _Huh._

Prue's eyes inevitably dropped to her cleavage. Maybe it was a bit perverse, but she was always drawn to breasts, like a teenage boy with an obsession. She schooled her features into a polite smile. "Of course."

The woman picked up the glass and leaned forward, until Prue could smell her alluring perfume.

"From one working gal to another…try to act like you know what you're doing."

Prue pulled back a little and stared the woman in the face, but her mask was giving little away.

"Ta," she murmured with a smirk and was swept away by an older man in a bowtie.

Prue looked after her for a long time. She tried to swallow down the dry taste in her mouth. The woman could have just been a random guest who'd issued her some condescending advice. But she could also be one of Bane's ghosts. That knowing little smirk… she _must_ be one of Bane's.

 _How many of his people are here_ , she wondered, looking around the room with a fresh sense of apprehension.

Prue felt sweat pooling at the back of her dress. She sorely wanted to return to the bathroom and just stay there for the remainder of the night. But there was no guarantee some old rich biddy wouldn't kick her out again. Besides, this was no time to lose her head.

* * *

The woman with the cat ears was dancing with Bruce Wayne. Prue followed their movements from above. She was parked with her tray on the second floor. Despite her small protests, the maître d' had sent her upstairs. Prue was chagrined at the prospect, because it lowered her chances of "running" into Miranda Tate. Few guests made their haunts up there, since everyone was dancing below.

She watched Bruce Wayne whisper something into the mysterious woman's ear. It couldn't be a coincidence that she was dancing with _him_ of all people, could it? But what was the end-goal? What was it all for? Had Bane known Wayne was going to attend?

Suddenly, there was an avalanche of roses. A stream of red petals fell from the ceiling and showered the couples who tilted their heads and _ohh'd_ and _aah'd_ at the display. It looked like something out of a Roman Vestalia. Prue glanced up. A few metal loops were attached to the ceiling and from it hung an elegant tarp which, when turned sideways, spilled the petals into the crowd. For a moment, she lost herself in the sight, too.

But her mind was still alert. Amidst the roses, she spotted her target. Miranda Tate was climbing the stairs on the other side of the room, and she was unattended. Prue's heart surged in her chest. Miranda was walking towards her. She tried to look busy and inconspicuous, but her eyes were glued to the beautiful woman's figure.

When they were mere feet away, Miranda removed her mask and smiled benevolently. "Ah, I'm _parched_."

Prue rushed over with the tray, knowing full well she wasn't putting on a very dignified display.

"Thank you, dear," Miranda murmured, slipping a thin envelope onto the tray. "Now tuck that in your dress when you can."

Prue nodded, grabbing the envelope and stashing it under the tray. The woman spoke with an accent, though Prue could hardly identify it. There was something enigmatic about her, like the roses falling from the ceiling. She had a sudden hankering to ask her where she was from, to know more about her, but that was obviously prohibited.

Miranda smiled once more and scrutinized her closely. "You have a willingness."

"Sorry, ma'am?" Prue inquired. She wondered if this was a code of some sort. Barsad hadn't told her.

"A willingness," Miranda repeated. Her faun-like eyes put her under a spell. "It's quite hard to find that quality in people nowadays…"

 _What do you mean?_

But Ms. Tate put on her mask once more and walked past her as if nothing had happened.

Prue felt the envelope getting sticky with sweat under her palm. She stood rooted to the spot, breathing in slowly, sucking her stomach in.

Eventually, another guest wondered by and grabbed a flute. She smiled a tremulous smile.

Bruce Wayne and the woman with the cat ears had stopped dancing. In fact, neither of them was downstairs any longer. The roses were still falling.

When the coast was clear, Prue dashed into a hallway and, against her better judgment, she opened the envelope. She had missed her chance once with the cardboard box from Arkham, she wouldn't miss it again. Inside, she found several blueprints that looked taken out of some sci-fi special. She had no idea what she was staring at. It looked like the inside of a sphere with a rectangular core. The hostesses were not allowed phones during the job, but even if she had managed to take a photo, she didn't know what she could do with it. She tried to memorize as many details as possible before slipping the blueprints inside the envelope again.

Prue leaned her back against the wall as she deposited the envelope in the waistband of her stockings. She had never put anything in her stockings before. And she'd only seen people do that in spy movies. She laughed a hollow laugh. She wondered if they – more accurately, Bane – would ever allow her to leave Gotham…knowing what she knew. It was very little, but perhaps it was enough to bury her.

But she was being morbid again. There would be time enough for that later. The night was not over.

* * *

"Richard Blevin, of Blevin Incorporated. Ring any bells? No? Well, that's refreshing. Usually, everyone talks shop with me."

Prue simpered weakly. The man with a bald patch who was perorating in front of her was an important investor of some sort, but the more he talked about his business, the more she felt like taking a nap.

"I don't suppose this is your regular job, darling. You look far too bright for this sort of thing. Am I right?"

Prue bit her cheek to quell her annoyance. "Actually, I'm a maid. I work at the Plaza? Changing beds and cleaning the sinks?" She made sure to end each sentence in a question, because she knew it drove people mad.

But _Richard_ didn't seem at all fazed. His smile broadened. "Even more refreshing! To tell you the truth, I hate all of these highbrow snobs. Women in my day used to be simple and straightforward."

Prue darted her eyes around, hoping to find an exit strategy. But as the rather portly man was blocking her way towards the ballroom, she had to wait until he moved on to another hostess. She had an inkling that preying on the staff was his favorite sport. He certainly looked old enough to be part of a _Days of Our Lives_ reunion.

"You don't say…" she trailed off, shifting her weight from one sore leg to the other.

"Oh, dear me, you poor thing, standing up all night. It must be a pain. Here, let's sit down for a while. I promise you won't get in trouble."

Prue hesitated. The occasion to rest and rub her ankles was simply too tempting to ignore.

She let him guide her to a pair of armchairs in the corner of the cigar room.

"There, that's better isn't it?"

Prue almost gave an audible moan. She had never appreciated a piece of furniture more. She could happily fall asleep in that chair, it was so comfortable.

 _Richard_ kept her awake though. He kept delighting her with tedious stories about his public housing investment in Palma de Mallorca.

"Have you ever been? No, I imagine it's a little pricey. You know, I'd be happy to take you," he blathered on with a stupid glint in his eye.

Prue decided it was probably time to leave. She had gotten her two minutes of rest and she didn't want to spend another second in his company.

"It was lovely meeting you," she muttered inconsequentially, "but I'm afraid I have to return to work now…"

"Oh no, stay awhile! The others can do fine without you. Tell me more about yourself. I'm so curious."

Prue made to get up from the chair, but _Richard_ suddenly placed a hand on her thigh, freezing her in motion. Prue stared at his veiny knuckles.

"Really, I'm not that interesting," she muttered, trying to move out of his grasp.

"A little modesty? I like that. I'll make you a proposition, darling. I've got a car waiting downstairs. We can leave any time you like. And I guarantee you'll have the best continental breakfast this side of Gotham come morning."

He grinned at her wolfishly as his hand climbed steadily up her thigh. Prue was at first too shocked to respond. She wanted to imprint her palm on his face, but she suddenly realized his fingers were getting dangerously close to the envelope in the waistband of her stockings.

She seized his wrist in a fit of panic. "You don't want to do that."

"What, do you have a secret weapon there?" he leered.

"Yes," and she launched a clumsy fist at his jaw. It wasn't strong enough to leave a mark, but it bewildered him momentarily so that he removed his hand from her stockings. Prue practically flew out of the chair.

"I'm reporting you, you little cow!" the man yelled after her receding figure.

* * *

The car couldn't come soon enough. She almost wrenched the door open. Prue had walked two blocks out of the way like Barsad had told her, but if she had to take one more step in these shoes she'd throw a hissy fit.

Her hand flew to the dress' side-zipper and she tugged at it angrily as she clambered into the car.

"God, I can't _breathe_."

She landed in the backseat, one shoe already discarded. The other was left comically dangling from her foot when she saw who was sitting there already.

How did he do this? _How_ did he become part of the shadows? How did he make his presence unnoticed? He was a giant. Giants shouldn't be this – _small_.

For a few moments, she tried not to breathe.

"Y-you."

"Me," he intoned with great relish. His face was half-darkness thanks to his ubiquitous mask. It struck her as cosmic irony that she had just left a masked ball.

"What are you doing here?"

She winced at her own nerve. She really had to stop running her mouth in front of him.

But Bane merely signaled for the driver to take off.

"You have a package for me."

Prue suddenly became aware of her appearance. Her dress was half unzipped and she was missing one shoe.

"Give me a minute," she blurted out, as her thick locks started falling from the pin at the top of her head. She made an effort to look for her shoe and fix up her dress, but it was evident that she was not going to do a very good job in the semi-dark, in a moving vehicle.

Bane regarded her fumbled attempts with supreme calm. His eyes never left her body. She felt incredibly exposed, and not only because of her dress.

She fished the envelope out of the waistband. "Here." It was warm, almost as warm as her skin.

Bane grabbed it from her fingers. He let it lie in his palm for a few moments, without opening it.

"What did you think of the blueprints?"

Prue blinked, drawing her legs together. "I didn't –"

"You must practice a better lie than that." His mechanic warble was oddly subdued in the quiet of the car, but she wasn't fooled by the calm before the storm.

She inhaled sharply. "All right. I looked. But I don't know what it is."

She saw a familiar tilt in his eyes. "I can believe that."

Prue bit her lip. The distance between them was negligible. He could seize her by the throat in one quick motion and she'd be done for. He had killed with bare hands.

And yet, she felt that he wouldn't hurt her, not in this car. It would be …unseemly.

She braved the next question without much concern for self-preservation. "So, what is it? What's in those blueprints?"

Bane regarded her for a moment. Then he tapped the envelope with his fingers. "This? This is a reactor."

Prue mulled over the information he'd offered. It didn't mean anything to her. "Well, that doesn't make it any clearer."

His eyes crinkled. "I expect not."

Prue suppressed a frustrated sigh. "What – what kind of a reactor is it? What does it do?"

"I give you a finger and you take the whole arm," he observed gruffly.

"I did what you told me, I played your little ruse. I spent the whole night on my feet, so I think I'm entitled to –"

" _I_ say what you are entitled to. Do not forget," he reminded her coolly.

Her jaw clicked shut against her will. She folded her hands across her knees. She felt a chill on her skin, even though his size rendered the backseat oppressively warm.

 _How many more errands am I going to run for you?_ she wondered desperately. _When will it be enough?_

"How did you find Ms. Tate?" he inquired, catching her off-guard.

"She…" She had found Miranda Tate many things. Beautiful, elusive, penetrating, confusing…

"She said I have a willingness," Prue replied.

And perhaps for the first time since she had met him, Prue saw something like surprise cross his face. His eyes widened for a fraction - but only a fraction - before they returned to their dull sheen.

"What does that mean?" Prue asked, watching his face carefully. "She said not many people have it nowadays."

"Anything else?" he asked, ignoring her question.

Prue sank her nails in the softness of her palms. "Is she an associate of yours?"

"Anything _else_?" he asked, a dangerous strand of impatience slipping into his voice.

"I…no. Well, Bruce Wayne showed up," she added stupidly, because she did not want to lose the thread of the conversation. She was starving for information.

Bane stared at her.

"Well," she fumbled. "You can't blame me for noticing that Wayne Enterprises are important to…" _you_ , "…the operation."

There was a moment where he might have contemplated crushing her skull, she was certain of that. But all he did was lean forward an inch. It was enough to make her stiffen.

"He is taken care of," was his even reply.

Prue wondered if by taken care of he meant the woman with the cat ears. She wasn't going to push her luck by asking, though.

"I guess there's one more thing," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I know Barsad said not to draw attention but…well, I think this one guy might complain about me."

Bane raised an eyebrow.

Prue pulled at the hem of her dress awkwardly. "One of the donors. He got a bit handsy with me at the end. I may have hit him in the face. He didn't seem pleased."

The air between them shifted. She felt a sudden wave of anger rolling off his gigantic frame. Prue winced. "Sorry, I promise I kept a low profile otherwise. But I couldn't stand still while he -"

"Where did he touch you?" he interrupted her severely.

Prue wanted the earth to swallow her. She pointed in the general area of her thighs. "I was afraid he'd get to the envelope."

Bane only grunted in reply. She understood he was pissed off, but surely that sleaze would forget about her in the coming days? She'd only mentioned it to clear her conscience.

"Name." It didn't sound like a question.

Prue frowned. "Blevin. Richard Blevin."

"Very well."

She wanted to ask what that meant, but she had a hunch she had exhausted her avenues with him for one night. She turned her head to the tinted window, wondering what all of this would amount to in the coming weeks. She was sitting in a car with a dangerous terrorist. And she was still alive, for now. The trick was to keep going.

* * *

Two days later, she got some answers.

She had come home from university to find Barsad eating cereals – _her_ cereals – in front of the TV without a care in the world.

"Little late for breakfast, don't you think?" she snipped moodily.

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine? Tough day at _school_?"

The way he lengthened each vowel made her want to hit him.

"Anyway, you should come have a look. You might enjoy this."

"I highly doubt it," she muttered, pouring herself a glass of water.

Barsad helpfully turned up the volume until she was forced to listen to the broadcast.

"…so far, we could not reach his lawyers for comments, but Mr. Blevin has denied the charges levied against him, despite the overwhelming evidence. This, of course, comes as a shocking revelation for his wife and family…"

 _Blevin._

Prue rushed into the living room. The newsreel on the screen showed the same sniveling man from the previous night getting into a limo, an expression of utter contempt on his face. On the left corner of the screen was a photo of a girl who looked young enough to be in high school. She was, in fact, wearing a uniform.

Barsad was grinning. "Turns out, the old coot got in bed with a sixteen year-old. They found the damning evidence… _somehow_."

Prue pressed a hand to her lips. She found that she was smiling, even though she really didn't want to.

"Boss takes care of his own," Barsad explained smugly.

 _His own._ Prue, for once, was not bothered by the inclusion.

* * *

 _A/N: thank you for your lovely reviews once again! this chapter is a mixture of canon and AU as you could probably tell. The line Miranda said about "willingness" will be explained in later chapters, but safe to say, it means something to Bane. Anyway let me know your thoughts!_


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Professor Attwood didn't like to be rushed. Prue watched as he slowly turned another page of her dissertation plan, his pen poised to make some very elaborate notes, no doubt. He had been doing this in perfect silence for the past half hour while his student watched helplessly. Prue knew that it was some form of punishment for having postponed their earlier meetings, but could the man be more sadistic than the dangerous criminals she was involved with?

It appeared so.

All she could do was wring her fingers in her lap and study the model in the carpet.

"Ms. Neill, I must say, this is..." Attwood began, at length.

Prue's head snapped up immediately. "Yes, Sir?"

"It's not entirely -"

Her phone started ringing. Prue winced internally. Professor Attwood's eyes narrowed visibly.

"I'm sorry, it won't happen again," she mumbled, clicking her phone shut.

"I should _hope_ so. As I was saying, what you've outlined in the first chapters is adequate, but..."

They both jumped in their seats when Mozart's _Symphony 14_ started playing in the background. Professor Attwood retrieved his own phone with a deeply confused frown.

"Hello? I'm not to be bothered during office hours -" His face grew taut with incomprehension. "What do you - oh, well, I..."

He handed over the phone to his student with a disgruntled mien. "It's for _you_ , Ms. Neill."

Prue stuttered a helpless apology and raised the phone to her ear.

"Hallo, sweetheart," Barsad said cheerfully on the other line. "You weren't picking up my calls."

She wanted to kill him, painfully. She smiled nervously towards her professor.

"May I step out for a minute, Sir?"

Professor Attwood raised his hand contemptuously. "Please, take your time."

* * *

"What's got you so flustered?"

Prue paced up and down the hallway, running an angry hand through her hair.

"What's got _me_ so flustered? You just called my professor's phone!"

"Yeah, well, what else was I supposed to do?"

"I can't believe you! I was in the middle of something! I don't care what super important task you have for me, this is my _one_ day off! I have rescheduled this meeting a dozen times, I'm fed up with you and your -"

"Goodness, love, I was only calling to ask if you wanted me to get anything from the supermarket."

Prue's hard sense of righteousness deflated like a balloon. "W-What?"

"Yeah, the fridge looked sorta empty and since I'm at the grocer's..."

"Oh." Damn it. She hadn't banked on that, she had expected some outlandish request that she would feel very satisfied in turning down. Or at least _pretend_ that she could turn down.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

"Uh, I guess you could get a dozen eggs, a packet of butter and ...maybe some bananas? Oh and er, bacon would be nice -"

"You got it. I'm also doing a run at the pharmacy. Any lady products I need to purchase?"

Prue blushed profusely. She _was_ running low on tampons, but she wasn't about to tell him that. "No, thanks, I'm covered."

"Are you sure? Cuz I don't mind. I mean I've seen my share of bloody bits -"

" _Okay_ , okay, you can get me a box of tampons."

"Lovely. Are you a heavy flow kind of gal or -"

" _Bye_."

Prue clicked the phone shut with a heavy sigh. She was letting criminals pick up her lady products. There was some very dark irony in that.

* * *

Barsad didn't really understand why it had been _very_ invasive to call her professor's number, but at least he had got good bacon. Prue was making herself a very late breakfast in the kitchen to comfort herself for the rather poor meeting she'd just had. Professor Attwood had told her in no uncertain terms that she had to deliver a chapter by the end of the month or else he would not advise her anymore.

"And it's all because of you," she muttered, flipping the omelet over in the pan.

The man in question popped his head in the kitchen. "I hope you're not talking about me, love, because your academic score was not much higher even before we arrived."

Prue wanted to throw the salt shaker at him. Him and his "boys" were currently lounging in the living room, working on their laptops.

"Screw you."

"Hah, boss would kill me if I did," he laughed.

Prue made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. Though, it was comforting to know Bane forbade fraternization of that kind.

"You'll be pleased to know you're gonna get _some_ compensation for all your troubles," Barsad said, stealing a rasher of bacon.

"Does it come in the shape of you guys leaving me alone?"

"On the contrary, sweetheart. You might be let in on a few of our secrets."

She stared at him disapprovingly. "Sounds like an empty promise to me. You people have never told me anything, why start now?"

"Well, you did prove yourself at the charity ball."

"All I did was put a damn envelope up my pantyhose," she grumbled, not knowing exactly _why_ she was upset. She _did_ want to find out more about their operation, didn't she? But then again, whatever they were doing _was_ illegal, so perhaps her curiosity would be self-destructive in the end.

" _Fiiine_ , if you don't want to take any of the credit... Let's just say we've more or less confirmed you won't stand in the way of our progress."

"Such praise," she muttered.

"Well, we had to make _sure_. And I would say you've been a good help so far, except you'd probably find a way to turn that into an insult," Barsad said, rolling his eyes.

Prue placed her hands on her hips. "You mean how I've been your messenger girl without pay?"

"Hey, the groceries have always been free."

"Oh, okay, I guess that was a fringe benefit," she replied sourly. "That and threatening the life of the people I care about."

"Mild inconvenience, really, once you see the bigger picture," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

"The bigger picture? What _is_ the bigger picture?"

But Barsad waved her off, just as she expected. "Patience, love. Patience."

Prue slammed down the frying pan and stormed out of the kitchen. She wasn't going to play his game today.

"Tomorrow night," he yelled after, "we're taking you down into the sewers."

Prue stopped dead in her tracks and turned around, looking far queasier than before. "Is that - is that a euphemism for something?"

Barsad laughed. "We're not _killing_ you, silly. It's a surprise, you'll see."

.

* * *

When the next evening rolled around, however, her apartment was empty. Bane's men were currently out on private business and only a few of their possessions were scattered around her living room. No one had come to take her to the "sewers", as promised.

Prue felt both relieved and disappointed. A part of her had hoped to be confided with this secret location, but another _wiser_ part was happy that Barsad had only been joking, after all.

She made herself some tea, had a small chat with her dad, in which she once again omitted telling him about her new "friends", and after saying good night to him, she got into bed with her book. For some reason, she was sleepier than usual. Her body felt heavy, like a sack of flour. She could barely keep her eyes open. Right before falling asleep, she thought she saw a figure enter her bedroom.

When she woke up, it felt like only minutes had passed. Prue reached out groggily for her phone which was usually perched on her nightstand. But there was nothing there except air.

When she finally opened her eyes, her bedroom had disappeared. Instead, it had been replaced with a dark tunnel.

Her blood froze in her veins. The tunnel was _moving_. Or rather, she was. Rusty metal rings sped before eyes as she traveled deeper into its mouth. She was lying down on a stretcher which was attached to a pair of wheels and someone was rolling her forward.

She tried to lift herself up only to discover that she was tied down around the waist with a buckle. She started to panic.

"Let me out, please, let me out -!"

"Oh, you're awake," Barsad piped above her. "Steady now, sweetheart, the belt is only there so you don't slide off."

"Why am I being hauled - what's happening - where -"

"Easy, easy, you're just confused. The drugs are wearing off."

"You _drugged_ me?" she bellowed, scandalized.

"I told you we were taking you to the sewers. Not _how_ we'd do it."

With the gradual awareness of her body and surroundings came the throb of a painful headache. She felt as if a stampede of wild horses had trampled over her brain. Her throat was parched and she had a sticky taste in her mouth. She really needed to get off this stretcher.

As if she had made the request out loud, the wheels stopped turning and she came to a sudden halt. Barsad unfastened the belt.

"You're good to walk the rest of the way. I was only waiting for you to wake up."

Prue sat up with some effort and held her head in her hands for a few moments. "Was it really _necessary_ to kidnap and sedate me?"

Barsad scratched at his stubble. "We don't usually go about doing anything _unnecessary_."

Prue squinted at him. "Okay, Mr. Sophist, you're very clever. I guess this means you guys don't trust me with your...secret layer, or whatever."

"Who's Mr. Sophist?" he wondered absently.

"Never mind. Just...lead the way," she grumbled, jumping down from the stretcher. It was only then she noticed there were three more men behind him. She recognized them vaguely as having frequented her apartment before, but she couldn't be sure. They all possessed the talent of looking anonymous.

She too was probably indistinguishable from other women, and that must have been an asset to Bane and his cohort. She, like them, was negligible quantity.

"Right, this is only a temporary abode, mind you," Barsad drawled, pulling her out of her bleak thoughts. He pushed her gently forwards and they started walking deeper into the darkness.

Now that she was more or less awake, she could hear the constant trickling of water from above. Her feet trod on hard cement which was made slippery by muck and lime. She had to be careful. The smell was sulfuric, but also strangely sweet, like rotting fruit. There were openings in the walls, closed off with thick black bars. Beyond them, she could hear the rivers of water and waste. As they walked on, the darkness turned into a milky opal fog and she thought that there must be an opening above them, but when she looked up, she saw electric torches fixed into the eaves of the vaults. They stretched on towards the end of the corridor where she could see a metal ladder going down into another level. She had a bad feeling they were supposed to climb down there.

Prue wrapped her coat tight around her body. The cold was seeping into her bones. At least Barsad had thought to bring something warm. Underneath she was just wearing her pajamas. She wondered where her life had gone so wrong that she was now exploring a _sewer_.

"Right down that ladder, love," he announced, much to her dread.

"Terrific."

.

* * *

The noise was deafening. A great mass of water was falling in a straight curtain, blocking her view momentarily. The water streamed down into a foamy waste canal, but above it, there was a crisscross of grids and walkways that each connected to different levels of the sewer. There were men patrolling each of these walkways, but she was too far down to see their faces.

"How do we get up there?" she asked absently.

"We don't. We'll watch from here," Barsad told her, all of his infuriating mirth suddenly vanished.

"Watch what?"

She was about to get her answer. She heard heavy footsteps on the walkway above them.

Barsad and his three men assumed a rigid position almost instinctively.

Prue knew what this meant all too well. She perked her ears up for the sound of Bane's heavy breathing, but the water was too loud to make it out.

She walked to the edge of the walkway and clenched her hands around the railing. From that angle, she could see the lower half of his body, his thick boots and camouflage gear. What was he doing up there?

And then, she heard his deep, gravelly voice.

"Let's not stand on ceremony...Mr. Wayne."

Prue blinked. _Mr. Wayne?_ The billionaire? _He_ was down here?

She craned her neck to catch a better glimpse of the man in question, but all she could see was...a billowing cape, coming from the other end of the walkway above.

 _Oh my God._

"That's...it can't be," she mumbled, drawing back from the railing.

Barsad and his men stared forward like living statues, not showing any kind of emotion at the reveal. For them, this was old news, apparently.

But Prue couldn't believe it. She was staring at the _Batman_ , who was actually...Bruce Wayne. She had never even considered the possibility, though it made a strange amount of sense.

Suddenly, the Wayne obsession of the past few weeks became much more sinister.

Bane started walking towards the Bat vigilante, and she could see both of them clearly now. Bane's torso was naked except for his military grade armored vest. His thick, bare arms looked both animal and machine, as if they were enforced with steel. The sinews were visibly taut, disclosing a violence that _ached_ to be unleashed. He was stripped down for a fight. The Batman, on the other hand, was secured behind his dark armor. He struck an imposing figure against the dwindling light. The contrast between them was telling. One was seemingly exposed, the other contained.

But _why_ were they facing off? What was going on?

Before she had time to think, she saw the Batman lunge forward to deliver the first strike and an involuntary sound was torn from her lips.

In that instant, Bane's head cocked to the side. He looked over the railing below and found her. His eyes met hers, just as Bruce Wayne's fist collided with his head.

Prue brought both hands to her mouth. The Batman landed another punch, taking advantage of his opponent's temporary distraction, but Bane's body was like granite. Despite his exposure, he was barely moved by the coming blows. He remained undisturbed.

After a few moments, he started hitting back. His fists crashed into the Batman's armor and the sound was like metal ringing against metal.

She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. Bane took charge of the fight. He shook off his rigidity and let his body unfold. His muscles extended, his back widened. He turned into a _mountain_. He blocked each futile attempt to attack him and delivered blow after merciless blow. His force was brutal, but also graceful. He wasn't expending a lot of effort, or at least he didn't show it. He was simply a vast instrument of violence, applying himself with precision.

The Batman found it hard to launch another assault; he was being pummeled by Bane. The more he tried to recover, the more ferocious his adversary became.

Prue could only muffle a scream as she saw Bruce Wayne being launched over the walkway into the water below.

Bane latched onto a metal chain hanging from the ceiling and went down after him. By now, the two were almost at her eye-level.

The Batman rose with difficulty, leaning against a steel shaft. He was trying to regain his strength, but Prue wanted to tell him to _run_.

As Bane grabbed him by the arms and wrestled him to the ground, she caught his eye again.

Bane stared at her for a few moments that seemed to stretch on for eternity. There was a strange calm in his eyes, a calm that contradicted his actions. Prue blinked, and then his monstrous hands wrapped around the Batman.

She screamed.

* * *

 _A/N: okay, leaving us off on a bit of a cliff-hanger, though the fight will continue in the next chapter and you'll have lots of Bane/Prue interaction to tide you over. Obviously, you all recognize the scene from canon where the Batman is effectively broken. "Mr. Sophist" is a reference to sophism, which is a way of arguing that is very much based on thin rhetoric rather than sound arguments. It derives from a popular practice of teaching in Ancient Greece (the teachers were called sophists) and Plato has a lot to say about it in his dialogues, where he condemns the sophists for their empty words. Anyway, thanks for bearing with me and thank you so much for your reviews! Your support is very much appreciated!_


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Prue screamed.

It was a primal sort of scream, where you're not aware how desperate you sound. The rush of water blanketed her voice, but it still carried through.

"Don't! Bane, _don't_!" she urged him.

She wanted him to stop. She didn't want to see him kill the Batman with his bare hands. But he was not listening. Though he had seen her and acknowledged her presence, it appeared he was fine with her watching his gruesome deeds unfold. In fact, _that_ might've been his purpose for bringing her here. He planted another fist in his opponent's jaw.

It was Barsad who dragged her away from the railing and put a hand over her mouth to silence her.

"Enough with the histrionics, darling," he spoke in her ear. "Nothing you'll say will change the Bat's fate."

Prue wrestled against his hold, but the henchman wouldn't release her. He let her keep watching, though.

She could see that Bruce Wayne had managed to wrangle out of his captor's hold and was trying to get up and put up a fight. He was considerably weakened. Bane pushed him down a short flight of stairs. The Batman fell, but he pulled something from his armor and threw it at the wall. It was a loud device, like small fireworks detonating. It was meant to distract the muzzled beast in front of him.

"Theatricality and deception," Bane drawled with an amused whirr. "Powerful agents to the uninitiated. But we are initiated, aren't we, Bruce? Members of the League of Shadows."

 _The League of…The League of what?_ She'd never heard of such an organization, but then again, why would she? It sounded like a cooked up name in a James Bond movie. And now she was hearing that both Bane and the Batman had been a part of it.

The villain and the hero, members of the same "league". It must've been a joke, but no one was laughing.

"And you _betrayed_ us…" Bane hissed, seizing the Bat by the throat and lifting him up until his feet barely grazed the ground. He delivered several punches to his gut and launched him across the bridge.

Prue couldn't make him out anymore with the water coming down so rapidly, but she could've sworn that Bane had said that _he_ was the League of Shadows now. Was he the sole leader then? And were his men also a part of it? Was Barsad a member? She somehow couldn't picture that.

Bane called out a foreign name that she didn't catch. Whoever that man had been, Bane claimed he was…fulfilling his destiny.

Prue shuddered. She had wanted to believe that he and his crew were part of a small terrorist cell with limited interests, not…not founders of some grand conspiracy. She felt like she was part of a complicated hoax that operated on mirrors and illusions. None of this seemed real.

The Batman made one last attempt to evade the monster. He activated a device on his belt and suddenly, the feeble lights around them were snuffed out and they were engulfed in darkness. Prue couldn't see what was happening anymore, though she distinguished movement and shadows.

She pulled at Barsad's sleeve. "You have to go down there." _To stop him, to end the fight_ , she hoped. But Barsad didn't move.

And then, she heard Bane's voice again.

"Ooh, you think darkness is your ally?" His voice had a husky, almost satisfied purr to it. "You merely _adopted_ the dark. I was born in it. Molded by it. I didn't see the light until I was already a man. By then, it was nothing to me but blinding!"

Prue heard the sharp intake of blows. Bane had seized his target once more, even in the dark.

 _I was born in it…I didn't see the light until I was already a man._

She went over the words in her head with a feverish need to understand. He was speaking metaphorically, wasn't he? He must have been. No one lives in literal dark for that long.

"The shadows betray you," Bane's voice boomed from below. "Because they belong to _me_."

Prue heard a sickly crack, as if a mask had been broken. This time she didn't scream. But she had to bite down on her tongue to stop the bile from rising in her throat. This kind of violence was unbearable. You only read about it in books or saw it in movies. You hoped you never had to witness it.

"I will show you were I have made my home while preparing to bring justice," Bane continued, his boots treading loudly on the metal bridge. "Then… I will _break_ you."

At this juncture in his speech, Barsad pulled her back against the wall abruptly.

Prue couldn't see what was happening, but there was a sudden, deafening noise. A loud crash erupted above her and large chunks of the ceiling started falling down in a heap of rubble. With it, came the bright glare of lights from above.

"Your precious Armory!" Bane cried out triumphantly. "Gratefully accepted. We will need it."

Prue stared up, her jaw slack in wonder. The hole in the ceiling revealed what looked like the basement of an office building. They were…this was…

Adrenaline made her fast on her feet. She connected the dots in a matter of seconds.

If he was Bruce Wayne and this was his "armory", they were under Wayne Towers.

Prue suddenly recalled that first assignment. She'd had to drop a briefcase inside a manhole, in the vicinity of Wayne Towers.

 _Oh God._ She clutched at her stomach weakly. Had her own actions indirectly led to this? Had that briefcase paved the way to infiltration? Had she helped them raise a coup against the Batman?

She saw the Bat raise himself one last time, though he was barely standing.

"Ah, yes," Bane drawled with glee. "I was wondering what would break first." The Batman ran at him and hit him with unrestrained anger, but Bane was in control now. He was ruthless and emotionless and clear-headed, and he put his adversary down with swift blows.

"Your spirit or your body," Bane finished, heaving the Bat up in the air, as if he weighed little more than a child. The sinews in his arms bulked with the effort. He dropped him with a victorious thud. She heard a spine crack.

Then he bent down and pulled off the bat mask from Bruce Wayne's face. It came off so easily. There was only half of it left. It was broken.

Bane dropped it almost absently into the sewer below. The water swallowed it with a fury.

Prue gazed after it, transfixed.

Already, some of his men were hauling the Batman's body into the shadows. The shadows that belonged to him.

"Come along, sweets," Barsad whispered low. "Show's over."

* * *

The show may have been over, but she was still replaying moments from it in her head. Some scenes were so vivid that she had to blink and ground herself in the present.

The present was this strange room. Pipelines crisscrossed the ceiling. The skeletal walls were made of bricks which had come loose and water was trickling in between. She was in a different part of the sewer, but the air was still fetid and the place still looked uninhabitable.

Yet, this was supposed to be an office, or some kind of private study. There was a desk in front of her and a tall chair behind it. There was a lamp on the desk too, the cheap kind you could buy in any major store. To her right, there was a metal bookcase, with leather-bound volumes and ledgers on each shelf.

She surveyed the contents with interest. She didn't feel guilty. Barsad had left her here alone. If she wasn't meant to snoop, he should've done a better job. But there wasn't much to snoop, sadly. Most of the titles on display were in…Arabic or Persian, if she had to guess. It was gibberish to her. There were also notebooks filled with numbers and figures and all sorts of things she'd never understand.

But stashed between these volumes were two books she recognized, two books she understood.

A biography of Hannibal of Carthage, the famous General, and… the second one...

Prue frowned. This didn't make sense. She flipped through the book in wonder and she noticed a few key passages had been underlined.

 _Wait…does this mean…_

The door behind her was pushed open. She stashed the books back quickly.

Bane entered the room with heavy steps. There were droplets of water running off his bare arms and shaved head. He looked distracted, as if he hadn't noticed her presence yet.

Prue steered her gaze away from him. She contemplated the floor in silence. Despite what she had seen tonight, she felt he wouldn't bring her here just to kill her. He seemed to like spectacle and punishment. He wouldn't just kill her; he'd give her a lesson. And he'd have a speech ready, no doubt.

"Barsad tells me you did not care for my methods of discipline," his voice drawled mechanically as he sat down at his desk.

Prue blinked. "Was I _supposed_ to like them?"

His eyes glimmered. "No. But you will see in time that I did the Batman more good than harm."

She frowned. "Where have you taken him?"

"Some place where he will learn. It will make him stronger…or it will kill him. But it will make him a man."

"Wasn't he already made a man by - by your _league_?" she asked.

"Ah, you paid attention to that," he remarked with a rueful glint.

"The League of Shadows," she repeated. "It's hard to forget a name like that."

"And yet, so many have," he replied with a hint of derision in his voice. She didn't know if he was only humoring her. Like a hunter toying with its prey.

Prue pulled on her coat tighter. "You said he betrayed you. Why are you then interested in his fate?"

Bane stared at her for a moment. "Why are _you_? You screamed for me to stop. You called my name, just as you did that day at the Stock Exchange."

Prue shook her head. "Anyone else would've done the same in my place."

"Not anyone."

She shrugged. "Bruce Wayne is still a human being."

"Yet you don't give your sympathies to every suffering creature around you," he countered with an arched brow. "You didn't care about _all_ the hostages that day."

"No…because it'd be too much. I'm just one person," she mumbled, feeling suddenly as if she was the one put on the stand.

"So. Some people are more deserving of humanity than others."

"No. You're twisting my words."

"Am I?"

"You didn't answer my question. Why do you care about his fate?"

He chuckled darkly. "I care about the fate of _all_ citizens of Gotham."

Prue gritted her teeth. She could see she was getting nowhere with this particular line of questioning.

She stared at his ordered shelves and swallowed the knot in her throat.

"Did you mean that thing you said, about not seeing the light until you were a man?"

Bane lowered his eyes and gazed at his hands, the coarse hands which had undone a man tonight. He brushed a thumb over one torn knuckle. The blood had dried on it.

"Were you kept a prisoner?" Prue asked again.

But the beast remained quiet, observing his own hands.

"Did someone hurt you? Is this vengeance?" she pressed on, despite his stubborn silence.

Bane opened a right-hand drawer by his side and retrieved a file from within.

"I have something for you here –" he started.

But Prue brushed him off, before she lost her courage. " _No_. Answer me. If it's not vengeance, is it self-destruction? Do you mean to kill yourself?"

This certainly caught his attention. His hand stilled on the open file. He looked up at her with the same unvarnished surprise he had betrayed when they had talked about Miranda Tate.

"What?"

Prue walked to his bookcase and pulled out the book which had puzzled her so deeply.

"When I saw the book on Hannibal of Carthage, it made sense, of course. A great general with superhuman ambitions and a painful vendetta against a system which had wronged him? I understood how he could be a model for you. But this other one, it didn't make sense to me."

And she showed him the battered copy of the biography of Gaius Petronius Arbiter.

"I mean, they're practically opposites. Petronius was everything Hannibal would've hated; a Roman courtier with a passion for easy living. Hannibal wanted to destroy Rome. Petronius cherished it. Hannibal lived life on the hard edge of battle. Petronius lived life for pleasure and beauty. Why would you put them together? But then I remembered, they both died by suicide."

Bane watched her with rapt attention. His eyes were dark with a flood of emotions that she could hardly make out. Like the waves of the ocean, swallowing each other up.

But she pressed on, feeling she was in her element. This was a history lesson.

"Hannibal tried to destroy Rome, failed and then fled. But wherever he went, he conspired against the Republic. When the Romans finally caught him, he chose poison rather than submission. And Petronius ...He wanted to die on his own terms. He had always offended the Empire and Nero with his personal freedom. He cut his veins in the presence of his friends and spoke the truth one last time about the men in power. In that way, both deaths are a statement. A statement against the status quo."

Prue felt feverish with excitement. She imagined briefly that Professor Attwood would be proud of her.

"I saw the passages you underlined...You want to destroy your own Rome, but you don't want to survive the destruction, do you? Maybe I'm wrong, but whatever you mean to do to this city, or to the Batman, you're going to do it to _yourself_ too."

She stopped for breath, exhaling loudly. She felt as if she'd run a hundred miles. But it felt _good_ somehow.

Bane rose from his chair abruptly, knocking the desk in his wake.

Prue stepped back in alarm. Had she struck a chord? Had she got it right?

He walked towards her with measured steps, his posture poised to strike. Her spine collided with the shelves behind her. Yet it didn't feel like he was cornering her.

She looked up at him with fear and expectation. He was going to tell her the truth. She was going to read it in his eyes.

He stopped when he was a hair's breadth away from her. The mask's perfunctory hiss echoed straight into her belly. They stared at each other, two parallel bodies that had nothing in common, that did not even breathe the same air.

"Tell me…" she trailed off, her throat dry. _Tell me if I'm right about you._

He raised his arm, the knuckles still stained with blood. He gently pried the book on Petronius from her fingers and set it on a shelf above her head, all the while keeping his eyes on her.

Prue didn't want to touch him, but she wondered what would happen if she reached out and brushed her fingers against his arm. He was inured to violence, but would a different sort of contact startle him?

"I take it you saw the news about Richard Blevin," he murmured, pulling her abruptly away from her thoughts.

She had to pause. She'd almost forgotten the night at the Gala and anything that came before it. She was so clearly wrapped up in the moment.

"Yes, I did. …Thank you."

The familiar words of gratitude never seemed to grow old between them.

"Hmm."

He stepped away then and she felt like a string which had been released. Her shoulders sagged in relief….and disappointment. He hadn't revealed himself to her.

"That file," he said, pointing a finger to his desk. "Contains some information I need delivered to Miranda Tate. The language is coded, so do not bother trying to understand."

Prue blinked. "You…want me to make another delivery."

His eyes crinkled. "Did you think you were free?"

"I – I thought after everything…after tonight..."

"That you'd be done? No, no, my _dear_. This is only the beginning. If anything, your little speech has strengthened my resolve."

"Your resolve?"

"You will _never_ be done. You profess to know so much about me, let me grant you your wish. If I ever felt inclined to let you go, I take it back now. You are mine to command. _You_ belong to _me_. Until the very end."

The temperature in the room suddenly turned frigid. She felt cold frissons all over her body, as if she had fallen in sewer water. This was not how it was supposed to go.

"Until – until the end?"

"Your end or mine," he replied gruffly and tossed the file in her direction. "Barsad will come fetch you."

Before she had any notion of protesting, he had marched out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

* * *

 _A/N: hello again, long time no see! this chapter continues the canonical scene between the Batman and Bane, with lines taken directly from the script. the rest, of course, belongs to me, to take a page from Bane's book. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you so much for all your reviews, I'm so glad new readers are discovering this story. There are a lot of anonymous readers I have to thank too, you're all wonderful. Let me know what you think about this chapter!_


	9. Chapter 9

9.

Prue couldn't get out of bed.

In theory, she knew it wasn't possible to live the rest of her life under the duvet, but in practice, she was getting really good at lying still and staring at the ceiling.

Maybe if she stared hard enough, she'd wake up from this nightmare.

She pressed a napkin to her nose and blew.

Ever since the "excursion" down in the sewers, she'd come down with a nasty bit of cold. It wasn't just her lack of overall motivation; she'd really gotten sick. It turns out you can't run around damp gutters wearing only your PJs and a coat.

Barsad and his boys were nursing her back to health, ironically. Chicken soup and all.

She still had a delivery to make.

Prue reached out for the soup bowl on the nightstand. It was lukewarm by now. She pressed her lips to the rim and drank without really tasting anything. It was a miracle she could keep it down. The first few days after her trip underground, she could barely stomach anything. Barsad had to force her to eat some toast.

She couldn't get the picture of the bat mask out of her head. The way it had slipped between the grates and fallen into the whirlpool. It had almost looked like a piece of flesh. And then the ghastly sight of Bruce Wayne's broken body being carried away by Bane's henchmen…

When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the ugly blows of their fight resounding against the walls.

And what would happen now? What would the city do without its Batman? He was a fixture, a pillar, a guardian. How long would it take for the people to realize he wasn't defending Gotham anymore?

She'd only lived in Gotham for a year and a half but she had never heard of anyone capable of defeating the vigilante. Not like this.

And the same man who had put down the Bat had told her afterwards, in the most chilling way possible, that she was in his grasp.

" _You are mine to command. You belong to me. Until the very end."_

The threat reminded her of all those addictive romance novels her mother used to read. Usually, the alpha male in those stories would say something gruff and possessive like "you are mine". It meant the guy was crazy about her and determined to make her his. It was supposed to sound dangerous, but really, it was a declaration of feelings. It was meant to make the female audience sigh with longing.

Prue chuckled to herself. She felt no such longing. Bane, ever the unromantic and pragmatic terrorist, meant something quite different by his words. He meant, "You are my mule for the foreseeable future."

She was certain the man couldn't harbor emotional attachments. It was probably not advised in his line of work, though he certainly seemed to _feel_ a lot. Most of it was anger. His voice had been laced with fury when he had talked about Bruce Wayne's betrayal of the League of Shadows. _That_ was something she needed to look into. Not here, at home. She would be wiser to do some research at Gotham University.

But that meant getting out of bed.

Prue groaned and turned on her side. This was going to suck.

But if she managed to compile enough evidence about this League of Shadows, maybe she could go to the police with it and maybe they'd offer her some protection.

A lot of _maybes_.

Still, she had to try. She'd seen Bruce Wayne get pummeled to an inch of his life. Not to mention…something terrible was about to go down in Gotham. And he wasn't around to protect it. She'd seen the intensity in Bane's eyes. She knew she'd hit upon the right idea with Hannibal and Petronius… Otherwise, he wouldn't have angrily decreed that she would be his underling for the rest of her time.

She'd _gotten_ to him.

It was …something. At least, she had an inkling of his plans. She was duty-bound to hamper them.

 _Oh yeah. If Batman couldn't stop him, Prue Neill will._

She sniffed her nose loudly.

.

* * *

Barsad tipped her chin up, inspecting her neck. The swelling had gone down, but not entirely. His steel blue eyes almost looked concerned.

"You sure you're good to go?"

Prue gently removed herself from his grasp. "Yeah, my fever's gone and the fresh air will do me good. Plus, I need to finish my assignments."

"Always with that school of yours...Remember, you've got the delivery in the afternoon." He sounded like a sinister, doting father.

 _How can I forget?_ she drawled to herself. It was sort of brilliant. Miranda Tate would order some catering from _Al Fresco's_ , and Prue would be the delivery girl on stand.

Simple and out in the open and perfect.

She often marveled at the many ways someone like her came in handy. The Chinese orderly at Arkham had been right. _We hide by not hiding at all._

Pretending to be common people going about their day was how The League of Shadows got their way.

Barsad handed her a mug filled with tea. He dropped a cold capsule inside, watching it fizz out.

"Drink up."

Prue took it from him, muttering a small thank you. She drank the whole thing in one gulp and wiped her mouth.

She looked at him watching her. He'd been so diligent these past few days, making sure she recovered. It was unnerving.

"Why are you being so nice, Barsad?"

"Whatever do you mean, love?"

"Well…I know I'm part of the team, but I doubt Bane told you to be kind to me."

"Not being kind, just being a decent fellow," he replied, tone aggrieved, brows furrowed. "Christ, what sort of men have you been dallying with if _I_ seem kind?"

Prue sucked on her cheek. "All right, but I still think you're being extra nice to me."

"Ooh, you want me to stop, do you? Want me to rough you up?"

Prue shook her head quickly. " _No_ , I just –" _You shouldn't be a part of this_ , she thought sadly. _Maybe in a different life you could've been a good guy._

She exhaled. "I guess I'm glad you're looking out for me."

Barsad pretended to scowl, but she could see he was pleased with her little comment. Prue smiled to herself. In this mad world they were living, bonds between people were the strangest things.

.

* * *

Prue moved her fingers across the leathery spines, enjoying their soothing touch. She had always liked libraries, but after the sewers, this large room filled with books was the most welcoming place on Earth.

Gotham University seemed like a sacred fortress where no one, not even Bane could reach her.

She hunkered down between two rows, flipping open a volume on Bhutanese history.

History. This was her bread and butter. It had always been, ever since she could remember. She had always been obsessed with the past. At first, it was her mother's troubled past that had absorbed her. She'd sought to know Darla better by documenting the life she'd had before. But then, as she grew older, she wanted to know _everyone's_ secret history. She wanted to know why things had turned out the way they had. Why the world had taken such an uneven shape. She believed there could be answers in the old annals, crammed between the faded scripts. Old historians had been wiser than her. They may have left her a key. She still believed this.

History was what she was good at, and it was her only weapon.

She hadn't managed to find anything palpable on the League of Shadows online or even after perusing the library's catalog. There were _many_ Leagues and _many_ Shadows, but none that went together. None that pointed in the right direction.

And then, she'd gotten an idea. It's about the people, not the institution. The League must have started as a group of like-minded individuals. _Everyone_ has a secret history.

If Bruce Wayne had been a part of this League, _he_ would lead her to it.

She googled Bruce Wayne's biography - every bit and scrape she could find. It wasn't very substantial; he really was as elusive as his vigilante persona, but no public person like him could disappear entirely. And he couldn't escape the gossip rags either. A lot of people discredited tabloids as a source of valid information and while she was inclined to agree, one would be foolish to discard them entirely. There was no smoke without a little bit of fire.

So, she purposely searched for the most outlandish pieces of gossip she could find, because in _his_ case, they might as well be true. He was the Batman, after all.

After skimming through sixteen articles about his secret illegitimate children and the French countess he'd supposedly bedded, she chanced on something slightly different.

One shoddy South Korean outlet was claiming that Bruce Wayne had served time in a prison in Bhutan. Prue wrote down the information in her notebook. She switched to another article she'd bookmarked previously. It said there that Bruce Wayne had gone on a Euro-Asian tour in his early twenties. It was expected of most socialites to travel the world. The funny thing was no one knew much about this tour. It hadn't been a regular affair with pap photos of him on a yacht or of him spotted in Venice with a leggy girlfriend.

So perhaps, given Bruce Wayne's nightly activities, this tour had been something _else_. Perhaps this tour had led to his recruitment in the League. It seemed to fit the timeline. He had returned to manage his parents' company after his trips abroad and he had probably been Batman ever since. There wouldn't have been _time_ for him to join the League and she didn't think Gotham was the League's main hub anyway.

She tried to track down as many locations of his foreign tour as possible. It was difficult work, given the scant information available. But Bhutan felt like a central lead. If he'd spent time in prison there, he must have been doing something illicit.

She went into the library and started pulling all the books she could find on Bhutan. What she knew from her years of studying was not enough to make her connect the dots, but she remembered that most of Bhutan's old historical records had been conveniently destroyed in a fire in 1827. She wondered if this League had had something to do with it.

 _Anything is possible…_ she thought grimly.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Prue groaned, leaning her head against the shelves. It was three in the afternoon already. Research would have to wait.

She had a delivery to make.

* * *

Miranda Tate lived in a tasteful brownstone in the Old Gotham District. It was the more historical, less swanky part of town, but it still shone with money. _Better_ money. More aristocratic and less Nouveau Riche.

Prue parked her delivery car across the street. The neighborhood was wrapped in a solemn aura of good breeding. The few passers-by who were walking their greyhounds or doing their afternoon shopping all spoke in a soft cadence, trying not to disturb each other.

Hardly the site for criminal activity. And yet.

Prue walked up the steps with her carrier bag and pressed a button next to the hardwood door.

"Yes?" a soft female voice inquired. She sounded elderly.

"Delivery for Ms. Tate from Al Fresco's," she recited briskly, as if she was just here on a regular job.

The door instantly gave in with a small buzz and a white-haired woman wearing a maid's uniform greeted her in the hallway.

Prue smiled at her. "Hello. I um…need Ms. Tate to pay for the package in person."

"Of course," the woman said, her wrinkled face showing no sign that anything was amiss. "She is expecting you."

Prue swallowed the knot in her throat. She stared up at the dark, winding staircase to her left. She felt a presence on the banister, watching her from above, but when she lifted her head, she saw no one.

She was certain, however, that this harmless old woman was not Miranda Tate's only house staff. She remembered the armored men which had swarmed Daggett's residence. Best not to think about it.

She followed the maid, hitching the bag over her shoulder. Inside it were the files she was supposed to hand over to Miranda.

She was wondering what it would be like to see the elusive woman again. She had made a strong impression on Prue at the Gala.

She was surprised when the maid walked her across the living room and towards the French windows. They were heading…outside?

Prue knew that some of these brownstones had back yards but this was quite different from what she'd expected. She was staring at a glass cage, topped by a glass dome, surrounded by all kinds of vibrant greenery. It was a hothouse.

The maid waved for her to go through the glass door.

"Ms. Tate is inside, waiting for you."

Prue scratched the back of her neck self-consciously. Even though the hothouse was a delicately wrought contraption, filled with flowers and plants, it seemed _more_ intimidating than the inside of an office.

She shuffled in hesitantly. A curling wave of heat struck her from all sides. The sun's rays poured directly overhead, making her head swim.

The smell was overpowering too – lush and fruity and a little bitter. There was pollen in the air. She wanted to sneeze.

Suddenly, a white arm rose above the foliage. It looked like Venus of Milo's missing limb.

Miranda was beckoning to her.

Prue licked her lips. There was already sweat pooling on her Cupid's bow. Her heavy jacket felt stifling in this counterfeit summer landscape.

Miranda Tate was sitting on a white stool in front of a white canvas. She wore a white, flowing dress, as if to complete the image.

She held the paintbrush in her fingers like a question mark. She had started to paint what looked like a grey hole in the middle of the white canvas. Her palette was made up of blacks and greys and browns. Not very cheerful colors.

Miranda smiled a faint, vulpine smile in her direction. She lifted her chin.

"Draw a chair, will you?"

There was another stool hidden behind a growth of ferns.

Prue hovered in front of her, clutching the carrier bag. She just wanted to deliver the files and go. But there was also the heady temptation of _her_ – this mysterious woman who captured her attention.

Curiosity won out, eventually.

 _Plus, I could gather more information about the League_ , she thought to herself.

She drew up the stool and sat down, placing the bag at her feet.

Miranda turned back to the canvas. "I am struggling to capture an old place from my childhood. It is proving rather difficult."

"A place from your childhood?" Prue echoed, staring at the bleak grey hole. "Is it…a metaphor?"

Miranda laughed and it sounded like the tinkling of bells. "I wish."

Prue wondered what she could possibly mean. She wanted to ask her questions – so many questions – but she didn't know where to start.

"You have something on your mind, don't you?" Miranda asked. "Except it's difficult to put in words."

Prue was momentarily spooked by her precision. She must be an easy read.

"Come on, don't be shy," the woman teased with the same refulgent smile.

Prue was already sweltering under her jacket. She felt hot beads on her temples. Her face must be filled with perspiration. "I just – have a question."

"Only one?" Miranda raised an eyebrow and dabbed her brush against the glops of color.

"I don't suppose you'd answer all of them."

"Mm," she agreed. "I cannot tell you much about the operation."

Prue wiped her sweaty palms against her jeans. She had already ascertained that the operation would involve casualties, including Bane's…if her historical deductions were correct.

But where did this beautiful woman fit in? Was she suicidal like Bane?

Somehow, Prue doubted it. She doubted everything at the moment.

Instead, she decided to ask something that concerned only herself.

"Actually…it's something you said at the Gala," Prue began with trepidation. "Something you told me that stuck with me."

It was the truth. She had been thinking about it ever since.

"Ah. I think I know what it was."

Prue waited for Miranda confirm it. Her hypnotizing violet eyes pinned her down. She could feel the beads of sweat trailing down her back.

"I told you, you have a willingness."

Prue nodded, almost relieved. "What does it mean, exactly?"

Miranda tapped her fingers lackadaisically against the paintbrush, her gaze distant, as if recalling something from the past. Prue watched her with rapt attention.

At length, the woman returned her gaze to her. There was something warm in her eyes, something almost affectionate. Prue wondered if it was directed at her.

"You know…people have become so comfortable and stupid in the past century. We do not recognize words anymore. But I will tell you, because you do not seem to me to be comfortable or stupid."

Prue smiled weakly, acknowledging the compliment.

Miranda continued, her voice soft as a dream. "I suppose common people call it "generosity", but I prefer "willingness". It is…more dynamic, less sentimental. You see, most people in this world live only for themselves. Oh, even when they are in love. Even when they have children. It is all a projection of themselves, _for_ themselves. They are the sun, and everyone else is in their orbit. Put them to the test – a _real_ , bloody test – and you shall see how quickly they defend their skin. But…there are also a few people, a _fraction_ really, who only live for others, who cannot imagine another kind of life. They would gladly die for them, kill for them. They would do anything that was asked and more. Living in their own body is foreign to them. They must always give themselves to others. They don't have a will. They have a willingness. It is different, you see."

Prue blinked, startled out of the trance when the speech came to an end. The heat of the hothouse enveloped her like a blanket. She could listen to Miranda speak forever. She absorbed the words quietly while the woman added more grey to her canvas.

"And you think I am like that?" Prue asked at length. "You think I live for others? You think I'd do anything for them?"

Miranda nodded with a small smile. "Of course. I could see it in you from the moment we met. You have dedicated your life to others. It only makes sense you would be here now, doing this."

 _Doing this._

Prue stared down into her lap. She wanted to deny the words. She wanted to say she didn't have a choice. Bane had forced her. She wiped the sweat from her brow.

It's true it had all started because she'd wanted to help that pregnant woman at the Stock Exchange. And it had spiraled from there...favors and demands and compromise...

 _That doesn't make me a doormat._

No, it didn't make her a doormat, but maybe it made her a good mule. A good little crony.

 _You belong to me._

"I'm sure _he_ has seen it too," Miranda spoke silkily, reading her thoughts once more. "He wouldn't have recruited you otherwise."

Prue's chest felt heavy with lead. It felt as grey as that hole in the canvas. She shrugged off her jacket, trying to get some air. But the heat seemed unrelenting. She had to get out of here.

"Oh, darling girl," Miranda cooed with a concerned look on her face. "I did not mean to make you sad. On the contrary. Your kind is the noblest there is."

Prue did not feel very _noble_. Miranda had no idea who she was. What she had done.

Prue was a selfish creature, deep down.

If she truly lived for others, she wouldn't have killed her mother and unborn brother.

She wouldn't have forced her father to raise someone else's daughter.

 _No. Don't._ _ **Don't**_ _._

But it was already out. She was thinking about it. She'd blocked it for so many years, trying to deny its reality. But a good historian never conceals the past, no matter how painful. She didn't know _why_ Miranda's words had brought it to the surface again, but there it was…the shameful wreck she had thought she'd buried.

Prue felt hot tears at the corners of her eyes and she blinked fast, forcing them back in.

Her father had always treated her like his own. But she'd figured it out when she was a bit older. She'd wanted to know everyone's secret history. She'd dug out pieces of her mother's past from her time spent in rehab. Darla had already been pregnant by the time she met and fell for Andrew. Prue put two and two together. She was not Andrew's daughter, had never been. She was the offspring of a violent junkie musician. That's who she was.

She'd managed not to think about this for a long time, but an afternoon spent in Miranda's hothouse had brought it all back somehow.

Prue wiped the wetness under her eyes quickly.

Miranda reached out and placed a cool hand on her wrist. "You mustn't cry, please. I do mean it; you are noble creatures. Just like him, you live to serve."

Prue stilled in her chair. "Just – just like him?"

Miranda nodded. "Of course. He has a willingness too. I knew it the moment I met him. The moment he…but well, that's another story."

And she gave her the elusive smile again, the smile which could rival that of Mona Lisa.

Prue's temples throbbed painfully. She couldn't make sense of Miranda's assessment. To think of Bane as someone who lived for others, who lived to _serve_ … It was improper. He always seemed in charge.

But...she remembered the way Bane's eyes had widened when she had mentioned Miranda's words at the Gala. He had been struck by something...something painful and familiar.

Maybe Bane wasn't the real boss, after all. Maybe Prue was staring at the real boss.

The thought made her blood freeze up in her veins despite the sweltering heat.

She gripped the stool's edge until her knuckles turned white.

"I – I really should go. I have to get back to work…but I have the files for you," she muttered, bending down and unzipping the bag.

"Thank you, Prue," Miranda murmured, using her name for the first time. "But you must stay for tea. I insist."

"Oh …no, I couldn't put you out like that."

"The pleasure is all mine."

Prue rose from the stool abruptly. "I really can't. Sorry, maybe another time."

Miranda pursed her lips, a delicate frown nestled between her brows. "That is a shame. Another time."

Prue did not even take her bag. She left it there, along with her jacket. She nodded perfunctorily and dashed out of the hothouse at full speed.

She pushed open the glass door and inhaled the crisp autumn air in relief. The sweat felt cool under her blouse and her eyelashes were cold with unshed tears. She pulled on the French windows and traversed the living room in wide steps.

 _I have to go to the police…I have to tell them about Miranda Tate._

No more backtracking, no more cowardice. No more servitude. Too much was at stake.

She almost made it into the shaded hallway – almost.

A dark figure appeared behind her. Before she could even gasp, a hand came over her mouth and she felt something blunt and sharp hit the back of her head.

Her legs gave in and she was swallowed by darkness.

* * *

 _A/N: a long and meaty chapter to make up for the wait! Also, Bane will show up next time, no worries. I want to thank the enthusiastic Guest reviewers who really put a smile on my face and all of you who keep up with this story and support it, it means a lot to me! If you want a refresher on Prue's backstory & character, go to the beginning of chapter 2. I hope you liked this chapter!_


	10. Chapter 10

10.

"Prue, dear…are you awake? Oh, you look so pale."

The voice sounded familiar, yet she couldn't place it. It sounded worried.

Her eyelids quivered and parted slowly. The light in the room was diffuse. She could make out shapes around her, but they changed and melted away when she tried to focus.

She closed her eyes again. The effort was too much.

"Prue…please, try to stay awake," the voice beckoned. "They don't let me see you for very long."

 _Hang on…I know this person._

She fought the temptation to go back to sleep. Her head felt so heavy. She blinked once, twice, wresting with the fog in her mind.

"Prue, oh honey."

The face that leaned over her was less obscure now. She faintly recognized it. But that couldn't be her…What was _she_ doing here?

She opened her parched lips.

"Mrs.…Mrs. Morris?"

The old woman nodded vigorously and reached for a small china cup on the nightstand.

Prue groaned. This didn't make sense. She hadn't seen her old client since the last time she visited the woman's apartment, when Bane's henchman had held a gun to her head. The visual still haunted her.

"Here, there's some warm tea for you."

"What are you … _why_ are you here?" Prue struggled to form the words. They felt as thick as glue on her tongue. Her forehead throbbed in pain. She could hardly raise her head.

Actually, she couldn't quite remember where "here" was.

This wasn't her bed. This wasn't her room.

What was happening?

 _Maybe if I go back to sleep…_

"Prue, honey, try to stay awake for me. I don't know these people very well, but they seem to know you. They brought me here…"

But the rest of Mrs. Morris' words were lost, like water swirling down the drain.

Prue's head fell back into the pillow and she was gone.

* * *

The next time she woke up, she didn't have to struggle to gather her bearings. Mostly because someone was pinching her cheek.

"Ow…"

"Your immunity system is atrocious, like most Americans'."

Prue opened her eyes. Her head wasn't throbbing anymore.

"You still have the flu, I fear. But you feel better now, don't you?"

Miranda Tate smiled down on her. It was maternal and soft and terrifying. She sat on the edge of the bed.

Prue raised herself on her elbows. Her muscles were sore, but she could stand up at least.

"You collapsed right on my Persian rug," Miranda informed her, brushing invisible lint from her knee. "Poor thing, the virus took its toll."

Prue rubbed her left eye. "No…I…I didn't collapse."

"You can't even remember?" Miranda tutted, as if disappointed with Prue's answer. "This is why nice girls like you shouldn't go down into sewers. You catch all sorts of things."

Prue shook her head convulsively. "That's not what happened."

"You _didn't_ go down into the sewers?" Miranda questioned, raising a delicate eyebrow.

"No, I did, but – then I came here to deliver something. And you – there was…"

"Yes?"

Prue tried to remember. But only one thing came to mind. "Mrs. Morris. She was here to see me."

Miranda's smile broadened. "Ah, yes."

"Why was she here?"

"She's still here. She hasn't left," Miranda rectified, rising from the bed. Prue noticed that she was wearing a beautiful black and orange kimono.

"Why…why did you bring her here?"

Miranda folded her arms lightly. "I thought you could use a friendly face. You are not feeling yourself."

Prue shoved the covers away and tried to place her feet on the ground.

"I'm conscious now. And I think I should take Mrs. Morris home."

"You can't walk or drive in this state," Miranda gently rebuffed her. She stepped closer to Prue.

"I'm fine. Thank you for…taking care of me."

"I'm not done taking care of you. You still need rest."

"I think I know what I need," Prue insisted.

"I don't think you heard me, Prudence."

Prue opened her mouth to protest, but in the next moment, Miranda seized her wrist.

Prue winced and then gasped as the beautiful woman easily pinned her arms to the mattress. She smelled of citrus and vanilla and she was _strong_ for someone so refined and delicate.

The wide kimono sleeves exposed her white wrists for a moment, and Prue could see a spattering of scars. They looked like old scars, but deep.

Miranda smiled coldly in her face and pulled the covers over her body.

"You are holding me prisoner," Prue spat, wishing she had as much cold blood in her as her jailor.

"Prisoner?" Miranda echoed, amused. "Not so. I will not lock the door when I leave you. You may explore my house and entertain yourself. My guards will not disturb you."

"And if I walk out the front door?"

Miranda shrugged. "Then, I suppose Mrs. Morris will have to suffer the consequences in your stead."

Prue's nostrils flared. She closed her eyes. This was the second time her old friend was being dragged into this.

"So, we're both prisoners."

"You will see matters differently once you have rested. Sleep on it," Miranda advised. And she leaned forward and kissed Prue on the forehead.

It felt like a soft stamp, like Miranda was claiming her.

Prue did not hear her close the door in her wake.

Once Miranda's steps receded down the hallway, Prue threw the covers off and stumbled out of bed. Her chest hurt from the panic boiling underneath.

Her room boasted no windows. The adjacent bathroom had a small awning which was too small to fit even a child through. The air-vent was just as impractical.

Prue sat on the toilet seat, pressing both palms to her temples.

She turned on the tap, watching the water gurgle down the drain.

There was no way out.

* * *

Eventually, she mastered her anxiety enough to attempt the door to her room.

Miranda had been true to her word. It was not locked and the corridor which stretched before her was eerily empty. There was no watchdog in sight. Prue padded lightly on the carpeted floor. She walked with her hand resting against the wall, as if preparing for an attack. There were two other doors down the hallway. She approached quietly and listened closely for any sounds within.

"Mrs. Morris?" she called out in a small voice.

No one answered.

She turned the knob on the first door. Locked.

The second door was open, much to her surprise. Prue dove her head, expecting – she did not know what.

But it was just a storage room. At least, that was her first impression. It looked as if one of the children had gone off to college and the room had been refashioned into a place where all the clutter of the house accumulated. There were drawers and cabinets stashed with all sorts of collectibles. There were paintings and canvases wrapped in cellophane. There were bookcases with ratty paperbacks and leather-bound volumes. There were Bohemian china and glass candelabra stashed into cardboard boxes. There were urns and vases and clay ceramics. They looked like bizarre knickknacks more than actual originals. It was an outlandish, idiosyncratic collection. In a strange way, it reminded her of Mrs. Morris. The old woman kept similar treasures in her apartment.

Prue rocked back on her heels. She had to find her friend. She had to make sure she was safe.

But something made her linger in this room. A mysterious sense of foreboding. A sense that she was missing something. Her jailor had told her she was free to "explore". Perhaps she should take this chance. Miranda might lock her up next time.

Prue opened the cabinets and looked through the drawers. Antiquated jewelry, silverware, meters of cloth, crepe de Chine. A selection of colorful fans. It's as if Miranda had traveled the world only to come back with small keepsakes.

Yet something did not feel right about the room. Something was bothering her.

She turned on the spot a few times. What was it? What was missing?

Her eyes fell on one of the bookcases in the corner. She noticed there was a sizable gap between the books, a space where a large tome must have sat. She could tell by the dust marks. She inspected the books. Most of them were bestsellers and manuals on gardening. Prue bent down and touched the empty spot. Whatever book had been taken out, she doubted it was only a gardening manual. And then she saw something glinting in the gap. She reached out warily and her fingers traced the blunt edge of a circular trinket. Prue pulled it out.

She was looking at a bookmark in the shape of a tassel which was knotted at one end with a large bronze seal. The color of the tassels was a bright blue, but the engravings on the seal were strange… They looked like letters, or some kind of alphabet. Was it Sanskrit? She couldn't tell. She wondered if the bookmark had been left behind when the larger book was taken out.

Prue debated with herself. She should put it back where she'd found it. Miranda would certainly check. This door had not been left open by accident. Maybe it was a trick, some kind of test.

And yet, she did not heed her own counsel. She slipped the tassel into her pocket. She did not know why, but she felt she had to take it.

Prue heard a sudden snap behind her, like the creaking of a step. She froze, afraid she'd been caught red-handed. She turned around slowly, but there was no one behind her. The door was open and the hallway was still empty.

She walked a few steps to the corner and saw the winding staircase which led downstairs. She approached the banister. On the lower level a man with nondescript features was posted, arms crossed in front of him. He did not look up at her. He seemed immobile, almost made of stone.

Prue knew that to run past him would be unwise. She did not recognize him as one of Bane's.

 _Will he come here? Will he visit Miranda?_ she wondered with a half-formed hope. Perhaps if he was here, she could entreat him to speak to Miranda on her behalf.

 _Listen to yourself. You think Bane will protect you._

He had kept her safe to serve his purposes, but he had not gone out of his way to shield her from danger. On the contrary. _He_ had sent her on this errand to Miranda in the first place. So he must want her here.

Prue clenched her fingers on the banister. She was so tired of being someone else's pawn, but was there another choice?

* * *

She awoke with a start in the middle of the night. The sheets were soaked in her sweat. Prue held a feverish hand to her head. She had dreamed that she was in the sewers again, she had dreamed of Bruce Wayne.

She checked under the mattress. The tassel bookmark was still there.

Prue got out of bed quietly and went to her door. She turned the knob slowly.

The hallway was dark and empty, but an icy chill made her shiver down to her bones. It was a draught coming from the stairs.

Prue tiptoed to the banister. There were sounds coming from downstairs, a murmur of voices. She strained to understand what was happening. There was no man on the stairs this time. Would it be prudent to climb down?

Prue issued forward before her courage left her entirely. She sprinted quietly to the first landing and then almost seized up when she saw a figure at the bottom of the stairs. Of course, Miranda wouldn't be so negligent. Prue crouched low, afraid the man would turn around and see her. She could hear the voices more clearly now. They were coming from somewhere in the house. The first's was Miranda's, melodious yet thin like a needle. The second one sounded like many voices at once, but she recognized the mechanic warble, the artificial echo, the monotone intonation.

 _Bane._

He was here.

What would happen if she called out his name?

 _No_. Calling his name had never done her much good in the past. In fact, it had led to all of this.

Prue hung to the banister and listened. It sounded as if they were arguing. Though Miranda's voice was weaker, she seemed to be commanding the argument. She interrupted Bane every time he tried to speak. Prue wondered if maybe they were talking about her. If they were deciding her fate.

The argument came to an end when Miranda suddenly adopted a different tone. Even though she couldn't make out the words, Prue discerned the change. She was no longer opposing him. She was trying to please him. Her voice was mellifluous and insinuating. Prue remembered she had been seduced in the same way in the hothouse.

And then Miranda gave a short laugh, a crystalline titter. And much to her shock, Prue heard Bane chuckle too, though it sounded more like a hackling cough.

She sank lower to the floor. They must be laughing at her. Or maybe they were just laughing together, because they were one mind, one will.

Bane had led her here and Miranda was keeping her for him. Prue could count on no one but herself to get her out of here.

She snuck quietly back upstairs, choking down her disappointment.

* * *

The next day she was allowed to see Mrs. Morris.

Miranda "invited" them both to tea in the parlor. Prue was led into the small ornate room by the man on the stairs.

Mrs. Morris was sitting hunched in a sedan chair with a tea cup in her lap.

Prue rushed to her and knelt by her side. She placed a hand over hers. The tea cup rattled in the woman's hold.

"Mrs. Morris. Are you all right? I'm so sorry! It's all my fault they're keeping you here."

The old woman smiled a tremulous smile. "I'm glad to see you're awake, dear."

"Have they hurt you?"

"N-no."

"You can be honest –"

"Oh, please, don't be so dramatic, Prudence," Miranda spoke up behind her. "Do stand up and sit by me. The tea is getting cold."

Her captor was wearing a formal ensemble of a dark silk shirt and grey trousers. She looked as if she was about to conduct a business meeting.

Prue stiffened. "I'll sit by my friend, thank you."

"Very well." Miranda beckoned behind her and the matronly maid she had met on her first day in the house entered the room bearing tray filled with scones and jam.

Miranda started pouring Prue a cup of tea from the brass teapot on the rosewood table in front of her.

It all felt weirdly domestic and absurd.

Miranda's sleeves fell back as she poured the tea. Prue couldn't help noticing once more the deep scars on her wrists. They looked odd, as if someone had taken the blade and cut her at random.

Prue shuddered at the violent image. She cleared her throat. "Did you – did you inflict those on yourself?"

Miranda blinked slowly. She looked down at her hand. "How observant of you."

The remark did not answer her question. Prue swallowed thickly. She wished she had the power to compel the woman to speak.

She slipped her hand inside her pocket where she had put the tassel bookmark. She stole a glance at Mrs. Morris. The poor woman was stirring the spoon inside her cup dejectedly.

Miranda was talking quietly with the matronly maid.

Prue seized her chance. She turned to her friend and signaled for her to look down.

Prue showed her the tassel inside her pocket. Mrs. Morris might know what it was, seeing as she had traveled far and wide.

"Have you seen something like this before?" she whispered. "Do you recognize it?"

Mrs. Morris frowned, staring intently at the tassel and the seal.

"What are you two gossiping about?" Miranda asked airily.

Prue turned around quickly. The bookmark fell out of her pocket and landed on the carpet with a soft thud.

Prue leaned forward and grabbed her tea cup. "Only wondering when you'd let us go."

Miranda smiled mysteriously. "It is rude to leave so soon, don't you think?"

"I think we overstayed our welcome, actually," Prue replied, trying to place her foot over the tassel.

"Nonsense. I am lonely in this big house by myself."

"You have quite a few men at your disposal."

"Ah, they are not very talkative," Miranda complained. "But you two, you must tell me how you met."

Mrs. Morris was looking down at Prue's foot.

"I used to deliver food to Mrs. Morris on a regular basis," Prue stammered, feeling a cold sweat on the back of her neck. "One day she asked me to stay and eat with her. And we discovered we liked each other."

"How quaint."

"I'm sorry it's not more exciting than that."

"Oh, but there must be some exciting part you are concealing." Miranda's eyes gleamed.

Prue pressed her heel down on the tassel. "Not really."

At that moment, one of the henchmen appeared in the doorway. Miranda signaled for him to approach. He started whispering in her ear.

Prue shuffled the tassel between her feet. She braved a glance at Mrs. Morris.

The old woman whispered something through clenched teeth. Prue shook her head. Mrs. Morris said it again.

 _Tibetan lotus._

Prue blinked. Tibetan lotus. The engraving on the seal. It didn't tell her much.

But then, as she stared down into her tea cup, Prue made sense of it.

She had read that Bruce Wayne had served a short sentence in Bhutan. But he had not stayed there. No, Tibet was right around the corner.

Was that the League's main hub? Had he spent time there?

Miranda suddenly clapped her hands, startling Prue from her thoughts.

"You ought to finish your tea while we wait for the book."

"The book?" Prue asked warily.

"Yes. We require it for the next step."

"The next step," Prue repeated dumbly. She had a sudden suspicion the book in question was the missing tome from the shelf upstairs.

"You cannot have a proper initiation otherwise."

"I don't understand."

Miranda leaned forward. Her smile was inviting, as everything about her was. "How else will you join the League of Shadows?"

* * *

 _A/N: dun dun dun! What is Miranda up to? We'll find out next time. Also there'll be a lot of Bane next chapter to make you happy. Thank you for your reviews and I particularly want to thank the last few Guests for their lovely comments, I'm very lucky to have you as readers. Mrs. Morris was introduced in chapter 3, if you need a refresher, and Bruce Wayne's stint in Bhutan was uncovered last chapter by Prue. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! (I apologize if there are any mistakes/typos, I am updating this at the crack of dawn, of course)_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Trigger warning for some gore and violence._

11.

Mrs. Morris had been right after all about the Tibetan lotus.

The weathered calf-bound volume placed in front of Prue served as a final confirmation.

"Go on, you can touch it," Miranda invited her with an almost genuine smile.

Prue ran her fingers gingerly over the yellowed pages, making sure not to damage them. The historian in her couldn't help it.

The _Bardo Thodol_ , known in the West as the _Tibetan Book of the Dead_.

Prue opened the book. Inside, there were strips of cloth glued to the pages. The engravings on the cloth looked older than anything she'd ever seen. They looked like fragments from the original manuscript.

"These are copies, surely, but they're so well done, it's almost like forgery," she said, poring over them in awe.

Miranda cocked her head. "You really _are_ an odd duck. But I am glad you enjoy my collection."

Prue sat back in the chair. "I – I'm not. It just confirms that the League of Shadows is based in Tibet, that's all."

Miranda steepled her hands together. "We are based everywhere, Prudence. We are Shadows, after all. Soon, you will become one too."

Prue clenched her jaw. "N-no. I told you, you got it wrong. I'm only a delivery girl, not a soldier."

"Deliverer, messenger…these are just empty words," Miranda replied, signaling to the man behind her. "I want to give you a real title."

Prue shook her head emphatically. "Thank you, but I don't want it."

"It's not about wanting. You do not choose the League. It chooses you."

Prue glanced in Mrs. Morris' direction. The old woman was just as baffled and terrified. Prue nodded at her. If there was one thing she was going to do here today was to get her back home safe.

"I'm…honored," she said, tongue heavy in her mouth, "but I don't have the set of skills required for such a…position. I don't know how to fight, I don't know all that many foreign languages, I mean I know some Italian and Spanish but that's mostly because of the neighborhoods where I deliver food and –"

Miranda held her hand up. "You are modest and self-effacing, just like a Shadow."

Prue made an impatient noise in her throat. "I'm not, I'd make a lousy…whatever you are."

"I don't think you understand. This is not something you can refuse," Miranda said and the man stationed behind her came forward with a quill and a bottle of ink.

Prue felt beads of sweat run down her back.

"Where's Bane?" she suddenly asked. "I want to talk to him."

Miranda raised her eyebrows. "You can do this without him."

"No. He got me in this mess. He should be here. I need to talk to him. This is a mistake."

Miranda turned the pages of the book all the way to the end. There were five pages covered in spidery ink.

Names. Only first names. A swarming locust of names, which after being written, were crossed over.

Prue stared. "What are these?"

"The name of the dead, of course. It is only fitting for the _Bardo Thodol._ You must write your name here and cross it out. Just like the rest."

Prue swallowed hard. "And then I die?"

"In a sense," Miranda nodded. "You'll be dead to the world of light. You will become a Shadow."

"I like the light," Prue spoke as two men started pulling the thick curtains over the windows and the parlor was slowly suffused in darkness.

"You will also like the dark. They are twins, after all," Miranda replied, placing a warm hand over hers.

Prue flinched. "I am not signing anything. You can forge my signature, if you like."

Miranda shrugged, as if she were dealing with an impetuous child. ""If you insist on being a stubborn mule, you will be disposed with. Everyone joins eventually…or they disappear."

"That's not much of a choice."

"I told you, Prue. The League chooses _you_. One day you will understand both your significance and insignificance."

Prue laughed bitterly, feeling bite in her throat. "Please spare me the Zen philosophy. It feels to me like you're the one making the choice for the League."

"If that makes more sense to you," Miranda shrugged again, "but in time, you will see –"

"Is this how you recruited the rest of your men? Coercion?" Prue interrupted her, thinking about Barsad and the rest of his mates. Had they been subjected to this too?

"Everyone has to belong somewhere, Prue."

 _And you don't, not yet_ , seemed to be the implication.

The room was now almost completely in shadows. Prue felt a familiar throbbing in her forehead. She finally caught on the spool of a memory that she had blocked out for the past few days.

Something she had reckoned with in Miranda's hothouse, before she had been knocked out.

 _I'm not my father's daughter. My dad was a thankless junkie. I don't belong anywhere._

Yes, that was it.

Prue shut her eyes for a moment, trying to rein in her emotions. This wasn't the time for a personal crisis. She could cope with it all once she was out of here.

"I'm not doing anything until I see Bane," she spoke, making sure her voice echoed.

Miranda heaved a wearied sigh. "Oh, all right. I suppose it can't hurt."

Her casual indifference did not sit well with Prue, but she still hoped she could appeal to Bane for reason.

It did not take long for him to show up. He was never too far away. A Shadow, like everyone else in the League.

When he entered the room, the air shifted, became populated with something tangible.

He moved soundlessly, yet everything groaned around him.

"Your pet was asking for you, darling," Miranda spoke leisurely over her shoulder where Bane had parked himself, like a looming gargoyle. "I'm afraid she needs a little encouragement."

Prue stared at the man in the mask. "You never told me any of this. You never told me I was signing up for..." She couldn't even finish it.

Bane did not look perturbed. His eyes turned glassy, almost absent, as they swept the room and her in it.

"You were not. Now you are," he replied evenly. "Things never remain static in this world."

" _No_. No. This wasn't your initial plan. Admit it. I was just supposed to be your delivery girl. Admit it."

Bane regarded her with contempt. Prue had never seen this look before. It hurt her, despite everything.

Miranda lifted her finger. The giant bent low at her side and she whispered something in his ear, lips against the shell.

Now that she was seeing them together in person, Prue could tell they were close. Closer than usual. There was something more intimate about their rapport. She couldn't imagine either of them showing true affection to another person. Though she had once believed Bane behaved according to some kind of code.

She did not know what to think now.

Miranda cleared her throat, demanding her attention. "You don't have to fret, Prue. You won't be doing very complicated things. You can still be a _delivery girl_." She said the words in mockery. "It takes years to train our Shadows properly. There is no rush. For now, you will only be a low-level subordinate."

Prue gripped the sides of her chair until her knuckles turned white. They were talking about her like it was a done deal. She felt so much helpless anger. She glanced at Bane.

"Is _he_ also only a lowly subordinate?"

The jab was too impertinent, even for her.

Miranda nodded to one of her cronies. The slap was backhanded and it hurt a lot more. Her cheek rang with pain.

She tasted blood.

She heard the whir of Bane's mask, heard him move behind Miranda, but when she looked up, he was still again.

"Another one for good measure," Miranda called.

This time, the man used his other hand and Prue felt the cold imprint of metal on her cheek. The man sported a thick iron band around his forefinger. It left a gash. He chuckled.

"Don't hurt her," Mrs. Morris stage-whispered, too terrified to speak out loud.

Prue inhaled sharply. The old woman was her responsibility too.

"You don't need to do this," she rasped, eyeing Miranda now. "I will never go to the police, I promise. I won't say anything to anyone, you have too much leverage."

"Sign your name and we shall see. The more you prolong this, the harder it gets for Mrs. Morris too. Don't you think she wants to go home?"

Prue wiped a small tear from her eye. Her whole face hurt. It seemed that she had never stood a chance.

She grabbed the quill that was offered. She wanted to rip it in half, but she stayed her hand.

She bent over the book. There was a half-finished row of names on the fifth page.

"Will I find Bruce Wayne's name in here?" she asked, hoping to surprise Miranda.

But the woman did not even flinch. She only smiled. " _Canard étrange_."

Odd duck, indeed.

Prue clenched her teeth. She wrote her name with shaking fingers, quill scratching against parchment. The name above her said _Yvonne_. Was it another woman who had gone to the big city and never returned, she wondered?

When it was done, she felt that something of her had been left on the page.

She did not believe in the supernatural, she held no superstitions. But this was _The Book of the Dead_. It meant something.

"Very good, Prue. You are _almost_ done."

Prue looked up. "Almost?"

"Almost. In order to complete the contract, you must do one more thing," Miranda said with another impish smile. "You are still innocent, still untouched. You still see yourself different from us."

"I don't think I'm innocent."

"Good. Then you will not mind shedding blood. For there is no true baptism without it."

Prue blanched. "Shedding blood."

"Not yours, don't worry," Miranda assured her. "We need you in one piece. No, it must be your friend here. This is why I have invited her, after all."

The room was spinning. Inchoate shadows slipping down her throat, making it hard to even have lungs.

Miranda rose from her chair. "The ceremonial dagger, if you will."

"No. No. Please, _no_ ," Prue stammered as Mrs. Morris drew back from her chair with a small cry.

"She has lived a long and full life," Miranda said as Bane held out an ivory mosaic box to her. He looked like a man turned to stone. Not even his chest moved as Miranda extracted the ivory-encrusted dagger. The blade had a russet sheen to it from all the blood it had shed.

Prue bolted from her chair and shielded Mrs. Morris with her body. "You will not hurt her."

Miranda sighed with displeasure. "Of course not. We have already told you. _You_ will."

"You'll have to kill me first," Prue spat.

"You signed your name. You cannot go back," Miranda said imperiously. "If you do not complete the contract, more people like Mrs. Morris will suffer."

Prue gripped the old woman's hand. "More people are already suffering."

"Even your father?" Miranda asked, raising an eyebrow.

Prue looked from her to Bane. "What did you tell her?"

"He did not have to tell me anything," Miranda replied tartly. "I am the one who informs others."

Prue wiped her eyes again. "Please. I signed the book. I will pay my debt another way."

Miranda heaved a sigh. "Becoming a Shadow is nasty business, I won't deny it. It is the lowest point of your existence. It _must_ be. That is what _Bardo Thodol_ means. _Bar do_ , entering the intermediary state between life and death, and _thos grol,_ acquiring knowledge. Enlightenment. A form of liberation."

Prue licked the blood from her mouth. "This isn't liberation. It's imprisonment."

"They are often one and the same," Miranda spoke, eyes seeing and unseeing something in the distance.

Bane took a step forward, moving away from her chair.

Prue watched as he parted the air in his path. He was coming towards her. He had taken the dagger from Miranda.

"Stay back," Prue croaked, keeping Mrs. Morris behind her.

"Make it quick and clean, for her sake," Bane rasped, handing her the dagger by the hilt.

Prue stared down at the offensive thing. What if she grabbed it and tried to plunge it into Bane's neck? Could she reach that high before he crushed her?

She knew the answer before she'd asked.

He guessed her intent all too well. His eyes crinkled. "You will have that chance, perhaps, someday. But now, you must finish it."

Prue reached out bravely and knocked the dagger from his hand. It fell with a soft thud on the floor.

Miranda exhaled in frustration. "Oh, for goodness' sake."

Bane hummed and bent down patiently. The other men watched. He picked up the dagger.

When he lifted his head and looked at Prue, she knew she couldn't pull that move twice.

But his eyes held something else beyond dull anger. There was – there was a demand there, a request.

 _Do it. Do what must be done._

Only his request was not triumphant, like Miranda's. He was not glorifying in her initiation.

Little comfort that was. Perhaps it was indifference, after all.

"I can't do it. You know I can't do it."

"You can. You will."

Prue wanted to spit in his face, wanted him to taste her hatred.

She felt Mrs. Morris' hand squeeze hers. The old woman turned her around.

She was shaking, but her voice was clear, almost confident.

"My dear…you must get out of here. You must live. Even if I don't."

" _No_ – Mrs. Morris – I'm not even considering –"

"I _am_. It is my life. And it is true, I've lived a full one. If someone must do it," she swallowed thickly, "let it be you."

" _No_ ," Prue sobbed.

"If we both die, if your father dies, what will it have been for?" she asked, raising her arm and wiping Prue's tears and blood.

Prue turned her head away. She couldn't take the woman's kindness. She glared at Bane.

"I trusted _you_. I don't know why I was that stupid, and I can't tell you the reason, but I trusted you. I thought you had a line you didn't cross. I knew you were doing terrible things, but…"

 _I never really thought you'd make_ _me_ _do it_ , were her unspoken words.

Bane's masked face remained impassive, but there was a ripple in his shoulders as he bent forward and offered her the dagger again. His body seemed less stolid than before.

"That was narcissistic of me, to think I would be spared," Prue said, laughing bitterly, tears tracking her cheeks.

"No. You were a child," Bane spoke each word in a careful cadence. "You won't be one anymore."

He pressed the dagger into her hand. His skin was hot and rough to the touch, but the warmth was no comfort. She sensed his heightened pulse, despite his sobriety. She wanted to beg him to stop playing this charade, but no matter what he thought deep down, he would follow through on his words.

That much she knew about him.

Mrs. Morris spoke behind her quietly. "I think I'm ready, Prue. Please, the waiting only makes it worse."

Prue fought a hysterical sob as she turned the dagger on her old friend.

The distance between them was both small and infinite. What would it take to close it?

Everything.

Prue's hand shook uncontrollably. She would fail Mrs. Morris even here. It would not be a clean death; it would be a carnage, because she couldn't make it stick. She couldn't do it in one thrust.

The difficulty in killing, she realized, was in the technique. She almost wanted to laugh again. Gallows humor, was it?

Prue stood behind her.

"Go on." _Become a Shadow._

A week ago, she was talking to her advisor, she was going to classes, she was still hanging onto a thread.

Her eyesight was blurred with tears. She wiped them furiously.

"Please, Prue," Mrs. Morris begged, her face white, already a cadaver.

Prue drew back her hand, preparing for the strike. The strike that would end years of living.

She swayed on her feet, trying to focus on the clinical aspects of her task. How to make it painless, how to make it quick?

How to do it so quick that afterwards she could turn the dagger on herself?

Moments passed in dissolution.

There was a sense of impending doom. Whatever she would do, it would be the end of it.

She suddenly saw her mother standing there, cradling her hospital gown, red between her legs.

Prue heaved. She swayed again.

But she stopped swaying when his hand landed on her shoulder. Solid, read. Keeping her in the here and now.

Before she could protest, she felt his fingers move swiftly to her elbow, pushing her forward. They struck together at the same time.

Prue screamed as her body collided with Mrs. Morris and the dagger lodged inside her heart.

The sound of the blade going in was one she was never going to forget.

Mrs. Morris smiled a tremulous smile as her body collapsed on the floor.

Prue screamed again. Maybe she'd never stop screaming because at least she couldn't hear the dagger going in.

Bane still had his hand on her elbow, fingers pressing on her pulse. He dragged her away from the corpse. He locked her in his arms as she cried. She beat herself against his cage, screaming murder, but he would not let go. She buried her face into his chest, not out of solace, but because she wanted to suffocate. Bane allowed her this much. He was not looking at her.

He was staring at Miranda.

She had sat down in her chair again. She nodded her head, although she did not look quite satisfied.

A few moments later, Bane released Prue, but he still held onto her elbow. He raised his thumb and smeared something on her forehead.

Blood.

Mrs. Morris' blood.

"One of us now," he rasped mournfully.

Prue did not wrench her head away. She accepted the stigma. In a sense, she knew she had to bear this mark - the mark of what she had done.

Bane sidestepped her and bent low. He wrenched the dagger from Mrs. Morris' chest. He cleaned it on his trousers.

He lumbered away from Prue and walked towards the man who was now holding the mosaic box. The one with the iron band around his forefinger. The one who had hit her.

Bane stopped before him. He eyed his hand.

The henchman opened the box wider. His expression was expectant. _What are you waiting for?_

Bane grabbed him by the arm and bent it until the man cried out and dropped the box.

The terrifying giant pinned the man to the ground and lodged the dagger in his hand, twisting it until it passed through bone and sinew.

The henchman screamed.

" _Bane_ ," Miranda called out angrily.

Her faithful commander rose, kicking the man with his boot. "This one was insolent."

Prue folded in on herself, trying to remove herself from the carnage.

But the blood was on her hands, forehead, lips, throat.

It was done.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry for the long wait. As you can see, this chapter was on the heavy emotional side and it took something out of me to write. Apologies for any typos, I may have been sloppy in my editing. I already have a good chunk of the next chapter written and it's mostly Bane and Prue interactions, coping with the aftermath. So expect a quicker update, hopefully. Thank you for your reviews and your patience, and I hope you enjoyed this grisly chapter and where I'm taking the story._


	12. Chapter 12

12.

The men escorted her upstairs. She wasn't fit to go home yet. She wasn't fit to do many things.

Prue didn't put up a fight.

She thought she wouldn't be able to sleep. Murderers are supposed to lie awake all night, thinking about the terrible thing they did. But she was so exhausted and disgusted with herself that she sank into a debilitating torpor the moment she hit the bed.

She woke up hours later, fully rested. Her knuckles were caked in dry blood and her shirt and pants were sprayed lightly, as if she had walked into a red mist.

How could she have fallen asleep like that?

She was still in Miranda's house.

Prue shuffled wearily into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She took off the borrowed clothes and stepped on them, squelching her toes against the fabric. She got into the shower and immediately threw up. It was such an instantaneous reaction, as if the bile inside her couldn't wait any longer. She knelt down and let the hot water scald her skin as she continued to dry heave. Prue stuck a finger in her throat. Better to vomit everything.

Oddly enough, she didn't want to kill herself. She didn't have enough energy for that. Just enough for throwing up.

No, if she died right now, she'd be no better than her junkie father. Her real father.

Prue held her knees to her chest under the spray. She opened her mouth for release, but no sound came out.

She couldn't bring herself to scream. In movies, people screamed all the time when they watched someone get killed. But murderers didn't scream. Even the remorseful ones. They usually backed away, or dropped the weapon, or swayed on their feet. Screaming was for the innocent.

She realized that a part of her had vanished along with Mrs. Morris and she'd never get it back and that was what being a murderer felt like. You had to lose a bit of life too.

In the morning, she was given back her old clothes, freshly laundered.

She had a difficult time putting them on. She tugged at the sleeves as if they were handcuffs.

The house was quiet. The kind of stolid quiet of antiquarians or bookshops. As she walked down the stairs escorted by two Shadows, she saw that all trace of the evening's events had been wiped clean. The parlor looked quaint, undisturbed except for the new carpet. There was no musty tome of names lying around, no mosaic box, certainly no dagger. There was nothing even vaguely threatening about the room. If she had not felt the blade going in, Prue would almost think she had dreamt it all.

She wondered placidly what they had done with the body. They must know many ways to dispose of it. Who would miss Mrs. Morris? She had no living relatives left. Her neighbors were old people, as old and enfeebled as her. They would just think she'd collapsed on the street.

Prue pondered all of this coolly. She felt like a third-party observer, a presence divorced from her body, floating above the scene. She wanted to be that distant ghost, to be immaterial.

She did not see Bane or Miranda as the henchmen walked with her to the foyer. They opened the front door for her. The rectangle of light nearly blinded her.

The Old Gotham District looked much the same. Quiet, affluent. The same old man she had seen a few days ago was walking the same greyhound. No one guessed what had taken place in the brownstone and they never would.

Her delivery car – a relic from another era – was still parked in the same spot.

Miranda's men nodded at her as she stood in the doorway. It was her signal to leave. Prue looked into their eyes. They met her gaze without a hint of shame. Why would they? She was one of them now, in a sense. And they knew she'd be back. She was not going anywhere.

Prue crossed the street without bothering to look for oncoming cars.

She didn't know if she was in any state to drive, which made her want to get behind the wheel all the more. They'd given her back her belongings, including her delivery bag and her phone.

There was a missed call from her dad.

Someone had sent a message to him, telling him she was lying low with the flu. The same message was sent to her boss at Al Fresco.

 _How thoughtful_ , she thought, choking on a ribbon of laughter lodged in her throat.

She backed out of the Old Gotham District without checking for oncoming cars. It was almost liberating, not to care very much about road safety. She left track marks behind her as she sped out of the quiet neighborhood, disturbing the peace.

* * *

There was no one at the apartment. She had expected to see Barsad. The man always knew how to spin his superior's actions into something resembling logic. But this time he must've known he couldn't save face. This time, his bracing presence would have been grotesque.

Prue was grateful. But a part of her hated him for not being there. He ought to answer for what his boss had done.

She did not know if she would have shouted at him or cried into his arms.

She got out of her clean clothes. She made a small pile and stuffed them in garbage bags. She took another shower and scrubbed her skin until it turned baby pink. She rummaged through her well-stocked fridge – courtesy of the Shadows – and she found no alcohol, but there was apple cider, of all things.

She sat down on the couch and drank the whole bottle, staring dispassionately at the windows across the road, the people inside them, going on with their lives without feeling the burden of having killed someone. She had been one of them until Bane had grabbed her elbow and pushed her hand forward. Just that one movement – like a swimmer parting water – and it had been over. One twinge of the muscles and she had lost her place among the redeemable.

 _He_ had done it, not her.

No, it was even worse this way. The man had conspired to ruin her life, but he would not ruin this. He would not take away her guilt. She would have it intact.

Minutes later, she couldn't stand the inaction anymore. She tried to read one of the books for her coursework, but the words on the page turned into Tibetan letters, ancient marks from The Book of the Dead. She could see her own name, written in a rough slant at the bottom of the page.

Prue closed the book and lay down on the couch. She hoped the room would stop spinning.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her messages.

She paused at Lisa's name. Their last conversation involved a pair of shoes that the girl had left at her place.

Prue remembered the unceremonious way Barsad had kicked her out. She felt even worse about it now. But Lisa wasn't one to hold grudges, was she? Prue had always been nice to her, except for that one time.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

 _Hey, Leese, sorry I've been MIA. Broke up with Barsa –_

She stopped, deleted, and typed again. _Broke up with Ben._ _Need to get out of the house. Know any parties for tonight?_

Lisa always knew about some party going on. She would not offer Prue a shoulder to cry on, not after everything, but she might give her a good tip.

It took an hour for Lisa to get back to her. Prue took another shower and ate a whole pack of sliced cheese. She was in the midst of throwing it up when she got the text from Lisa.

 _I knew that guy was a total shithead. There's a rave happening in the Diamond District, u in?_

Prue smiled and wiped the vomit from her mouth. Thank God for oblivion.

* * *

Lisa had planned on being cold to Prue, but one look at her old friend and she couldn't keep up the frosty façade. She was too shocked.

"Jesus, you look like you got hit by a bus."

Prue knew her face was like a bruise. She had tried putting on concealer, but her fingers shook too badly. At least she'd managed to shrug a T-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans on. She wiped the corner of her eye. "Well, Ben did a number on me."

It was weird how much Ben sounded like Bane in her head.

"Ugh, that sucks. Although…I mean not to be a bitch, but after you kicked me out, it was bound to happen."

Prue nodded. "You're right. I shouldn't have done that."

Lisa was mollified. She smiled and put a hand on her arm. "Forget him. We're here to have fun." She could smell the apple cider on Prue's breath. "I guess you already got started."

Prue smiled emptily. "Just a tiny bit."

She was grateful for the dim lights and the blaring noise of trap music. It dulled the senses, made conversation harder. The party was taking place in a disaffected warehouse that smelled eerily of animal fur. The music reverberated from the eaves down into the cold cement like a dry shower.

Lisa soon disengaged. She was needed elsewhere, but she handed Prue a red plastic cup filled with vodka and orange juice.

She drank it slowly, staring at the writhing bodies around her. She should've worn something nicer, she reflected. And then she laughed, because what did it matter anymore?

She downed the rest of the vodka quickly and didn't reflect anymore.

She threw herself into the crowd, trying to find the center and be submerged. She jumped and danced chaotically, colliding against elbows and shoulders, losing herself in the cacophony. It was a subaqueous environment, slippery but sharp. She had turned into a blind fish, strung out on a hook. She kept her eyes closed and drowned in it, a pool of debauchery.

Prue couldn't remember the last time she'd been to a party or danced like this. But she remembered her mom talking about the old days when she'd been on the road with the band. They used to call Darla a 'firecracker'. She always partied the hardest and made everyone else have fun too. Sometimes she got stark naked and danced on top of the tour van and no one could say anything, because she was effervescent and beautiful. Prue had admired that quality in her mother, but Darla had warned her that this was no life for her, that she wanted better from her daughter. So Prue had been a straight-laced kid all throughout her teens, not slipping up once. Not affording to. She had always strived to match the ideal her mother wanted for her, even after she was gone and couldn't see her daughter growing up.

But now, that ideal was pointless. It could finally be discarded. Prue may have killed her mother and little brother without meaning to, but now she had killed in earnest. Perhaps she was always going to kill. All her life she must have been waiting for the inevitable, for the transformation. The moment she could become her father's daughter and assume his and Darla's life of self-loathing and indulgence. There was doomed beauty in it too.

She tipped her head back, watching shadows convulse against the rafters.

She felt a stranger's hands on her waist, squeezing tight.

She returned her gaze to earth. A man shrouded in cigarette smoke was smiling down at her. He wasn't bad looking, but something in his shifty, oily eyes made her shrink back.

"I'm not in the mood, sorry."

The man pulled her against him and shouted in her ear. "Then why are you here tonight?"

"Why are _you_?" she shouted over the music.

"Mindless fun," he replied, while his hand still played on the small of her back. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

Maybe he was right. Maybe all our actions, when cumulated and examined under a magnifying glass, didn't mean a damn thing.

Prue felt another wave of nausea. "Uh, thanks but…I wouldn't be much fun."

"Don't sell yourself short."

"I'm not. I said I'm not interested."

"Aw, come on, we're good dance partners –"

Prue gripped the front of his shirt. The strobe light shone a cadaveric white on his face.

"I know what it sounds like when you sink the knife in," she told him, hearing herself speak but not really registering the words. "I know the little sound it makes when it tears into the flesh, like folding an umbrella, or stepping on a small balloon. You don't expect it to sound like that. I can hear it even now."

The man let go of her and took a step back. She noticed he was a little older than her.

"What the fuck?"

Prue shrugged. "I told you I wasn't going to be much fun."

He shook his head. "Who the hell talks like that? Are you some kind of psycho bi–"

"Oh, that's nothing. You should hear my knife stories."

The husky voice took them both by surprise. It was deep and wry and sardonic.

The man turned and gaped. The young woman with smoky eyes and full crimson lips had stepped right into his comfort zone, her stilettos striking the cement with almost sadistic relish. She was comely and gorgeous, but there was a controlled, sleek air about her that warned you not to underestimate her. That and the pocket knife jutting rather cavalierly from her waistband.

"I've got plenty," the woman added, red fingernails tapping the hilt, "if you want to stick around."

The raver shook his head in alarm, muttering something about "crazy bitches", and was soon lost in the crowd.

A few moments passed in uneasy silence as the music blared around them.

Prue had seen her before. Of course she had seen her. It would be impossible not to notice her. But she had worn a mask and cat ears for Miranda's gala. Now she was looking at the woman without the visor.

"I had it under control," Prue said, more to fill in the gaps.

"I know you did." The woman nodded. "He was spooked. That's good."

Prue shook her head. "I didn't mean to say those things. It's been a rough day." Putting it mildly. But she did not want this woman thinking that she went around spilling her guts.

"Hey, I've said far worse things in my time. It happens to the best of us." She smiled indifferently. There was something oddly refreshing about her. She took everything in stride.

Did she even know what had happened –? Was she a Shadow herself?

Prue suddenly stiffened at the thought. "Did you follow me here?"

"Guilty as charged. But to be honest, I was in the mood for a party myself. Next time I'll take you to a really good spot I know downtown."

Prue ignored her invitation. "So you're the watchdog? Are they afraid I'm not going to be able to handle myself in public?"

The woman was not even a little frazzled. " _Dog_? Please. I stick to felines. And I don't know about ' _they'_. Bane just told me to look after you."

 _Bane_. Prue snorted inelegantly. She was definitely not sober because she found the concept hilarious. "Look after me? The guy just keeps outdoing himself. What will he think of next?"

The woman surveyed her with some degree of sympathy. "How about you and I sit down for a chat? I'm Selina, by the way."

* * *

"I guess Bane felt you needed…a more feminine touch, let's say."

Selina pushed the water bottle in her direction. They had miraculously found a quieter corner near the back doors.

Prue took a sip of water. _Feminine touch._ She'd had enough of that with Miranda. But Selina seemed a different sort.

"Why would I need a feminine touch?"

The woman shrugged. "I don't know the details, but I can guess it wasn't pretty. It never is in his line of work."

"Why do you work for him then? It's obviously not a choice for _me_ ," Prue said, staring at the people dancing in the background. "But you look like someone who can handle herself."

"Looks can be deceiving. I may not be in your position exactly, but I can't afford to …misbehave." Selina's voice was still light, almost teasing, but underneath it, Prue sensed the tension.

"We were both working the night I saw you. You were there with Bruce Wayne."

The name seemed to cast a shadow over Selina's features. "Yeah, I _was_." The past tense was mournful, repentant.

"Do you know if he's still ali–"

" _Don't_ ," Selina warned. "Nothing good can come of it."

Prue blinked. "Good or not, you must wonder if he… I mean you know who he _really_ was –"

"And people call _me_ nosy," Selina drawled. "You really ought to take a hint."

"I'm not very good at hints," Prue muttered, rubbing her thumb against the water bottle. "It's what got me in this mess."

"Mistakes are opportunities for learning."

Prue felt like laughing again. There were some mistakes that taught you nothing. They were just black holes, sucking you in with no lesson to impart.

Prue wondered if Selina had ever killed anyone. It seemed possible. She wanted to ask her, but did not dare to. It was the most intimate thing in the world.

Instead, Prue decided to fall back on the only thing she knew, the only thing that made sense. History. Even made-up history.

"Selene, your namesake…She was the goddess of the moon, daughter of Hyperion, the brightest Titan. I read about her in Argonautica. She fell in love with a mortal by the name of Endymion. She used to cast her silver rays over him when he was asleep. He looked so beautiful unconscious that Selene asked Zeus to make him sleep forever. It was…pretty cruel of her, but I don't doubt she loved him, in her own way."

Selina watched her behind long, dark eyelashes. The memory of Bruce Wayne hovered between them like a ghost.

Finally, she spoke. "I can see why Bane keeps you around."

Prue took a long gulp of water and wiped her mouth. "Yeah, I'm his Oracle of Delphi."

Selina smiled. "There you go again. It's like you live in a different world."

"Sadly, I don't."

"Well, it's nice to imagine it. That _other_ world." Selina's eyes glazed over for a moment. But her acerbic expression returned all too quickly. "We all crave escapism, even someone like him."

Prue did not know what to think. She remembered standing in that strange cubbyhole below the sewers with him, asking him if he was going to kill himself. Petronius and Hannibal. She shook her head. "I don't think that's what he craves."

Selina smiled. "You might be right. After all, he sent me here for you."

Prue frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. You can't be that naïve."

"About?"

"His cravings."

Prue blanched.

The implication in Selina's remark was crass and ridiculous and _preposterous_ and it made her want to laugh all the more hysterically. Bane was entirely Miranda's creature. He belonged to her. And even so, it was _absurd_ –

"Let me tell you a secret. Just between us working girls," Selina continued, drawing closer. "Men often like being told what to do. They don't admit it, but…they yearn for it. Especially big alpha guys who think they're in control."

Prue was caught off-guard by the change in topic. Did she mean that Bane liked following Miranda's orders?

Selina read the confusion on her face. She shrugged. "I'm just saying. If you have a power, use it."

Prue almost flinched. _Her?_ Had she heard Selina right?

The moon-goddess smirked. "It was the talk of town when you ordered Bane around during his own hostage mission."

Prue flushed. She remembered the day at the Stock Exchange all too well. "I didn't – I didn't _order_ him around. I only asked him to help another woman."

"Well, let's just say not many people survive such an experience."

"It was a one-time thing."

Selina measured her. "Are you sure?"

 _Yes. No. Yes._

She remembered her strange covenant with Bane. The scattered 'thank you's. He would give her something, she would show gratitude.

She remembered also with strange clarity that during the bloody initiation of the previous night he had punished the man who had struck her. And she hadn't "thanked" him for it.

Prue felt cold, even if she was running a sweat. She wanted to leave.

She looked into Selina's eyes. "I think I'll call it a night, if you don't mind. Tell him thank you for your company."

It was tradition, after all.

Selina smiled like she understood.

* * *

The apartment was still empty. No henchmen. No Shadows.

Prue missed the crowd at the party.

She sat down on the edge of her bed. She thumbed her phone nervously.

She wanted to put it to the test.

Selina's words kept ringing in her head. _I'm just saying. If you have a power, use it._

She texted Barsad. _Ask your boss to –_

No. She tapped backspace.

 _Tell Bane I need to –_

Delete. She sucked in a breath.

 _Tell Bane I want to talk to him. Here._

She hit 'send' before she could change her mind.

* * *

 _A/N: I know I promised this chapter would be all Prue/Bane interactions in the aftermath, and that's actually next chapter, sorry, but this was necessary build-up. I initially wrote the P/B scenes first and then realized I had forgotten about an important Selina/Prue scene I had planned in advance. In any case, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Next time, we focus on our main two. Thank you so much for your reviews, I was really glad about your reactions to the previous chapter, even when they were negative, because emotions are a powerful thing. Special thanks to NinKen94, JessicaW, Cassie321 and many others. Apologies for any typos/errors, I'm always updating when I'm exhausted._


	13. Chapter 13

13.

Prue had worked herself up so much during the past hour pacing up and down her bedroom, running simulations of what she would say in her mind that when she heard the latch turn in the front door she was genuinely startled.

She realized she had not really expected him to come.

And she still didn't as she walked out into the hallway.

But there was no doubt about it. Selina had been right.

Bane closed the door behind him with a soft thud. He seemed to part the walls like water as he lumbered towards her. His face, masked and ciphered, spoke nothing of his motive in coming here. He was in control of himself as always, and yet –

Prue quickly veered into the living room, turning her back on him.

He followed her.

Prue busied herself by picking up a dirty mug from the coffee table.

"You can sit down," she told him as she walked into the kitchen.

Bane thankfully did not follow her there.

She dumped the mug in the sink and leaned her arms over it, breathing through her mouth. She already felt sweat staining the back of her T-shirt.

She took out two glasses and filled them with water – and realized halfway through that he wouldn't be able to drink his. Why was she so goddamn disoriented? She had practiced this.

Nonetheless, she brought both glasses with her when she reentered the room. She set them on the table.

Bane stared at them.

"Take off your mask and drink, if you want," she said off-handedly, as if it was all the same to her. She did not know what sort of courage this was, but she kept talking. "Even you must drink water sometimes."

Bane eased himself on the couch, spreading his legs, heavy boots scuffing against the carpet. He leaned his sinewy arms against his knees and interlaced his fingers. Prue watched his movements. His hands were always in motion, she noticed, always weaving some invisible web. He was Miranda's hard-working spider, she thought with a shudder.

Moments passed in uneasy silence as she stood across the room, watching him.

"You wished to _talk_ ," he said at length, the whir of his voice cutting up the words like a knife on a chopping board.

Prue had played the conversation in her head many times. What would she say to him? What accusations would she hurl at him? She wanted him to feel _half_ of what she felt. But her rage and frustration were coiled deep inside her and she did not know where to start, did not even know if she should start, if there was any point.

She licked her lips. "Does Miranda know you're here?"

"She will," he replied evenly, almost like a promise.

"But she doesn't know yet," Prue countered.

Bane remained silent, watching her.

Prue sniffed. "Makes sense. I keep thinking of what she said to me in the hothouse. She said, "just like him, you live to serve." I remember exactly."

Bane remained stone-still. But even stillness had a language. She thought she read acquiescence in it. _Live to serve._

"That's what she meant when she said we both have a willingness," she continued, running her tongue over the words as if they were bitter pills. "Our will is not ours. We're servants. That's our lot in life, you and I."

Bane lowered his eyes to his hands. He moved one thumb against the other, weaving.

Prue took a step forward. "How did _you_ become her servant?"

He did not answer. He did not acknowledge the words.

She wanted to throw the water at him, to revive him from this hateful sleep.

She clenched her fists. "Tell me. You owe me that, at least."

Bane shook his head. "No…I do not."

Prue swallowed. "But there _is_ a story, isn't there? And it's similar to mine. She recruited you against your will, didn't she?"

She needed this story; she needed to hear he was not the co-author of her misery but only a miserable bystander. Even if she knew it was a lie.

Bane shook his head again. "I followed her willingly from the beginning."

 _From the beginning._

Prue couldn't stand to hear it. She turned away from him. She trained her eyes on the window instead. "We don't have wills, that's what she said. According to her, you followed her because it's in your nature."

"I wanted to," he repeated savagely. "I've always wanted to."

 _Always._

The intensity and conviction made her want to throw up. He was thoroughly brainwashed. Or thoroughly devoted to the woman he loved.

Prue clenched her jaw, still staring at the world outside. "Do you ever disagree with her?"

An imperceptible pause. "No."

Prue smiled. "You're lying. I heard you fighting with her one night…I was eavesdropping on the stairs."

She could've sworn there was almost a disgruntled note in his mechanic warble as he replied. "You should not have done that."

"You shouldn't have done some things either," she replied softly. "What were you arguing about?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

Prue flinched. "It concerns me. It was about my initiation, wasn't it? Do you have any regrets about it?"

She did not turn to see his face, but she felt him stirring, churning the air around him.

"No."

His denial was a farce. She remembered the way he had guided her, resignedly, to her task. It had not been glorious, it had not been triumphant.

It had been mournful.

She turned on him, eyes flashing. "You don't care, do you? That she's using you. That you're just an instrument in her hands."

Bane inclined his head. "I _am_ an instrument."

Prue felt her rage slipping its bounds at his words. "Stop it!"

How could he be such a powerful presence and yet so self-effacing and servile?

She gritted her teeth. "And you're going on a suicide mission for her too."

The whirring of his mask suddenly hissed.

She glared at him. "Yes. Don't think I've forgotten about that." She could almost smell the sewers, the smell of old books too. She had read entire pages of him that night. "I was right, wasn't I? You're going to die doing whatever she needs done."

His silence was answer enough, though she detected anger in it. He was simmering underneath his stony demeanor.

"What is it all _for_?" she demanded. "What is the mission statement here? Dying for the League to achieve _what_? I am one of you now, so you might as well tell me."

But he was smarter than that, she knew. He'd never reveal his plans for the city – or rather, Miranda's plans. Yet she wanted to try anyway, wanted to beat her fists against that brick wall.

"The League… as you will learn in time… is a useful cleansing tool," he rasped. "The world is filled to the brim with filth. You only manage to breathe in it because of us."

" _You_ hardly breathe at all."

"Precisely," he retorted. "It is the sacrifice I made."

Prue stared at the hateful contraption. She wished he'd take it off for a moment just to see the slant of his mouth, just to see there were more human parts underneath. She bit her tongue. "Is killing part of cleansing, then?"

"It is one form. Baptism by blood," he said, eyeing her like she was still in the thick of it, like he had just pressed his bloody thumb against her forehead.

Prue tried not to think about it. "Will you kill people or will you have them kill others?"

 _Both, it's both_ , she answered to herself.

Bane nodded, as if he had heard her.

"And you think the people will fall in line so easily?"

"You did."

Prue froze. She opened her mouth. She couldn't work the muscles of her throat. She wanted to howl. She took a step towards him. And another.

He rose, meeting her halfway.

She raised her hands and he let her. She struck him. She struck both fists against the solid armature, aiming for the body underneath. She did it again. And again.

 _Thwack_. _Thwack_.

Had anyone ever done this to him? Had he allowed it? She didn't care. She beat him, she pounded her fists, trying to push him off-balance.

Bane only looked away.

Prue exhaled and groaned as she leaned her whole body into the task. She wanted to diminish him, to render him small.

 _I did not fall easily,_ she screamed inside her head. _Nobody does, no matter what your leader says._

And once more, as if he had a passageway into her mind, he nodded.

"I know. I did not mean that," he rasped.

Prue stumbled and came to a halt.

"You didn't mean it. Then _why_ did you say it? To hurt me?"

And it seemed such a ridiculous thing to ask. As if something like that mattered.

But Bane shook his head. "No. I did not say it to hurt you."

"Then why?"

"I am trying to help you."

Prue's face was slack for a moment before it erupted into cold laughter. " _Help_ me? Like you helped me kill Mrs. Morris? Thank you. Truly, if it hadn't been for you, I couldn't have gone through with it."

 _I_ _ **wouldn't**_ _have gone through with it._

Bane seemed to stiffen, seemed to sharpen like glass, serrated, near breaking point, as Prue continued to show her gratitude.

"Really, _thank you_. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you! Isn't that what you want to hear all the time? Thank you so goddamn much for everything you've done for me!"

She was screaming in his face now, spewing her debt to him like it was lethal poison. She drenched him in it, hoping it would burn.

And it did.

He suddenly grabbed her chin in his bear paw and squeezed, clamping her mouth shut. He drew her closer.

His fingers moved lower.

Prue felt her throat closing up. He was almost choking her.

"Mmfffhank you, mmmffank you…" she croaked like a child, words muffled, crumpled in his fist.

Her lips whispered close to his mask. The noxious gases seemed to be leaking straight into her mouth. The mesh of metal almost soothed her. It was a kind of morphine. She opened her mouth as much as she could and swallowed, feeling light-headed.

"I am _trying_ to protect you," he said and it almost sounded like a snarl. The mask was the shadow of a mouth against hers, too far away for contact, too close for detachment.

Prue shuddered as she felt his thumb pressing against her pulse, almost – almost rubbing circles. A touch-starved creature whose mistress kept him on a short leash.

"How – how can you protect me –" she spoke, swallowing small pockets of air, "when you can't even – protect yourself."

It was that simple, that brutal.

Everything he did, he did for someone else. He was vulnerable, _more_ vulnerable than Prue.

Bane let her go.

In fact, he pushed her away from him.

Prue stumbled, knocking into the coffee table, making the glass rattle.

He looked almost remorseful for a second, before he stalked into the opposite direction. A powerless wave of anger rolled off his giant's back.

Prue massaged her throat, more to cover his thumb print than to comfort herself. "Will you tell Miranda about this too?"

Bane clenched and unclenched his fists.

His voice was deep and unrepentant. "I am the only life-line you have, Prudence. Don't waste it."

Prue almost wanted to say, _maybe I am yours too_ , but she knew it would be too bold, too risky at a time when he was so volatile.

She felt a different impulse, a wiser inclination. She remembered Selina's words. _If you have a power, use it._

He was already stalking towards the front door when she called out to him.

"Bane."

His name. Always a powerful sound, always an instrument.

He turned halfway to her.

She met his eyes without hesitation. "Don't leave yet."

She pointed to the table where there were still two glasses of water. "Drink the water before you go."

For a moment, he furrowed his brows. She had caught him off-guard.

"Drink it for me," she said, unwavering.

 _Prove to me you are my life-line_ , her gaze seemed to say.

She picked up the glass and raised it to him from across the room. And waited to see what he would do.

He could smash it to pieces. Water would spill everywhere. They'd cut themselves on the glass.

Or he could just leave. It was very likely he would.

She stood her ground, ready for disappointment. Half of one's life is waiting for nothing at all.

Slowly, slower than a roll of film unwinding, he brought his hands to the back of his head.

* * *

Prue felt as if she was being robbed of breath again, but she had to keep still.

The straps fell away and steam hissed malevolently from the mask. His shoulders tensed as he removed it, pulling it over the back of his head.

Something snapped at the back of his neck and he groaned, pressing his palm to his nape, as if containing something inside him.

Prue parted her lips. The blank face revealed to her in the semi-darkness of her apartment was nothing like she expected.

He was…both younger and older than she'd imagined.

There was bruising and trauma surrounding the nose and mouth, as if they had been caved in, but his face was relatively whole. He had once been handsome, boyish even.

He might have possessed a smile too, though now it was etched from his lips.

Her hand shook on the glass, but she still held it aloft to him.

Bane stepped forward. He tried to control his muscles. He did not lunge, but he was not as graceful as before.

Their fingers did not brush.

He stared at her as he brought the glass to his mouth, and he kept staring as he craned his neck and downed its contents, water trickling down his chin.

She noticed that the mere action of drinking was an effort. His lips trembled. His shoulders shook slightly.

He was in pain.

But he did not let the pain overwhelm him. He drank it all.

Prue wanted to say something, but every word seemed meaningless. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. It was all so impossibly human. He was a fragile fortress.

He set the glass down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He set the mask back on his head with a clinch and the wreckage of his face was tucked away.

His shoulders sagged imperceptibly in relief.

Prue felt the tension in her belly unfurl.

She nodded to him, hoping that her face did not show pity. She could not forgive him, but she could try and decipher more of the pages of his book.

"Thank you."

She did not mean the words as a barb. They just slipped out. Perhaps there was irony in them, but there were also buried feelings.

Bane inhaled the fumes, returning to himself.

He turned away.

He had done this for her. They were both Miranda's servants, but he had done this for her.

 _Live to serve._

He walked out of her apartment without another sound.

* * *

 _A/N: the song I kept listening to while writing this chapter was "Two-Hearted Spider" by the Editors (you can find it on youtube) and I definitely recommend it (especially when the lyrics go, "every move that you make/ breaks me, breaks me"). I hope you enjoyed this emotional chapter. Thank you so much for your reviews, they really mean the world (and keep me writing)._


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